Garen peered around his over-sized hand, attempting to get a look at the board before he let his fingers drop from the king. His eyes darted back and forth between the piece in his finger, and the opponent across from him; neither supplied him with a hint at what would happen next. Begrudgingly, he dropped the piece into place and nodded. "Your move."
As quick as a serpent, Katarina's hand darted across the board, moving her queen to take his lonely bishop. "I do love an old fashioned fork, but this match would be more enjoyable were I able to kill both at once."
"What challenge would there be in that?" Garen hunkered back down, his mind attempting to think of a new plan.
"One does not need a challenge, only victory."
"Typical." Garen snorted, air bursting through his nose like that of a charging bull. "This is a game of military tactics and precision, not some...murder fetish."
"Oh dear boy." Katarina let out a long, drawn out yawn before stretching her arms out wide. "Proper tactics only result in the fulfillment of such a fetish."
"Incorrect." Garen reached a gloved hand down, picking up his queen. The piece danced around the board before eventually returning to it's original location. "Life should be held dear, preserved and protected." He looked to his opponent, who was now sitting sideways in her chair, legs draped over the arm. She met his eyes, giving him a crooked smile. It sent goosebumps down Garen's arms, causing him to swallow so hard it felt as if a rock had taken refuge in his throat. He tried to return the gaze, but all he managed to do was form an unhealthy looking snarl.
"You take too long with this silly game." Katarina pulled a dagger from out of her boot and started spinning it around one of her fingers. "So meticulous and careful, as if each piece is one of your men. The goal is to kill my king, not protect yours."
The white queen danced across the board before Garen leaned back. His shoulders pulled tight as he looked down at the board, a slow nod directed towards Katarina. "Your turn."
"About time." The dagger in Katarina's hand slowly reached out to her rook, which she slide all the way across the board to Garen's back row. Another little smile flickered across her face. "Check."
Garen's face seemed to turn to stone, and he sat, staring at the board without any sign of life. The only noise in the near empty room of the inn was the crackle of the fire in the hearthstone, and the light tapping of Katarina's knife against her chair.
"What is wrong with you?" Katarina clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and sat up straight. "Where is the aggressive man from the battlefield? The man who slays ten foes at once, charging into unbearable odds in the name of his king. Where is the Garen worth killing?" She flicked her dagger out at Garen's king with the intent of knocking it off the board, but he reached out and caught her by the wrist. She laughed, ever so lightly. "Still in there somewhere, is he?"
Garen pushed her wrist aside before reaching down and sliding his knight across the board. "Check."
"Really?" Katarina blinked, her fingers lightly reaching down to fix her new problem. "Check."
"Check." Garen shifted the pieces faster than he had moved all night. His opponent was leaning in now, and she moved so fast, in the way that he had expected, that he was already moving his next piece before he was done with his last. Each turn ramped up higher and higher, with every play ending with one or the other in check. They traded pieces like they traded men, until there were only two kings left on the board.
"You cheated." Mumbled Katarina, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Only Noxian's cheat."
"I wouldn't even need to."
"That never seems to stop you."
"If you're dead and I'm not, it matters not how it happened."
"Not even your dirty tactics will bring you victory on the battlefield."
"I would kill your king and all your men before you even managed to get your giant ass out of that chair."
"You will not lay a finger on my king, my men, or me."
"Try and stop me." A dagger flew from Katarin'a sleeve headed directly at Garen's chest. He darted from the chair, moving in front of the fireplace with a speed that defied his large frame. The dagger whizzed past him, sticking into the chair with a soft thud. His stoney demeanor returned as he locked eyes with Katarina.
"Combat is illegal outside the League." He had no weapon, but he made no move to flee. A Demacian never faltered, never surrendered, and never fled. His gloved fingers inched towards the sword that was usually
strapped to his back, but all his grip tightened around was air. He dropped his clenched fists to his side as he prepared to stand his ground, regardless of what would happen next. "Your move, Noxian."
A smile flickered across Katarina's lips as she vaulted over the back of her chair, three new daggers appearing in her hands. "My move?" She let out a light laugh before her body visibly tensed, ready to spring. "Try and stop me, Might of Demacia."
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Sunday, February 9, 2014
015 - "The Rise of the Fallen."
"Hi."
"Hello."
"Is this the right number?"
"It depends. Who are you trying to call?"
"...a helpline."
"Any helpline in particular?"
"The suicide helpline. Aren't you supposed to have some sort of greeting?"
"Supposed to."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Where is the greeting? Why are you just answering the phone like I have the wrong number?"
"I don't much like the greeting. Too cheery."
"How can a greeting be too cheery?"
"Hello! Welcome to the suicide prevention helpline! We want you to know that we care and that your life is important. My name is Jimmy, how may I help you?"
"Are you patronizing me?"
"Could be."
"I'm going to commit suicide."
"No you're not. If you were, you would have done it by now instead of calling me."
"You're not very kind."
"Eh. I'm paid to take up enough of your time for the police to arrive. I'm not paid to care."
"...isn't the whole point of your job to care? To stop people from killing themselves?"
"Nah. My wage is mediocre, so my effort matches it. Like I said, nobody who is going to bother me is going to actually off themselves."
"What if I just wanted an audience?"
"Then you would do it in public."
"Fine, fine."
"Whats your name?"
"Michael."
"Okay Michael, let's have it."
"Have what?"
"Your life story. If you're not gonna off yourself, you might as well tell me an interesting story."
"My life isn't interesting."
"Everyone is interesting, you just need the right audience."
"What makes you the right audience?"
"Have you hung up yet?"
"...no."
"Are you going to?"
"No."
"That makes me the right audience. Thus, Michael, storytime."
"Okay, fine. My dad kicked me out of my home and told me never to return. My family disowned me and said they never wanted to see me again."
"Why did they kick you out?"
"My father is strict. The family obeys him without question. I did too, for awhile, but he got bad. Eventually I couldn't. So I was thrown out."
"And your friends?"
"I wasn't allowed any."
"No friends? Sounds rough."
"I don't know what friends are like. I wouldn't know."
"How do you feel?"
"Worthless, alone, lost, and stuck on a world considered the pit of no hope."
"Yeah, friends will help with that. You should try making some."
"How? I'm, a failure, a castaway left to this hellhole to rot and die with a mess of my father's other failures."
"Have you tried talking to someone?"
"I am."
"Try talking to someone else. I'm just a guy doing his job. Talk to a stranger. Someone random."
"I have no idea how."
"Do you drink coffee?"
"I don't know."
"You don't-alright, do you drink tea? Soda? Booze?"
"I don't know."
"Uh, how about food? Do you eat?"
"I think so."
"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrright, annnnnnnnnnyway, go eat? Meet someone else who eats? Do what you like doing. You like doing things?"
"I think so."
"You could be a bit less vague. What do you like doing?"
"Fighting."
"You sound as if you're just brimming with positive energy. What else?"
"I don't know. Maybe...dancing?"
"Alright, good. Join a dance club, take some lessons. Join a gym and spar with others. Do something other than moping around contemplating suicide. You'll find friends."
"But...whats the point? Why should I bother?"
"You have a world at your finger tips. If you're not going to take your life, you might as well live it."
"A whole world?"
"Yeah, a whole universe if you want to be daring and discover space. Point is, quit your pouting and find something better to do.'
"You're really not very nice."
"Yeah, well, I heard they might be giving me a raise. Once that goes through, maybe I'll work on it."
"You could try just...caring."
"You could try being less of a little bitch. We all have something we could fix."
"I miss my family."
"Your father and family sound like trash. Thank god you got away from them."
"Don't insult them."
"They kicked you out and left you alone. Not much of a family."
"I suppose. Maybe you're right."
"Thats the spirit!"
"Maybe it is."
"Damn straight it is. Anyway, police should be there anytime now. You good?"
"I think so. Thanks."
"No worries.You know what you're going to do?"
"Yeah. I have a whole world out there, just waiting to be conquered."
---------------------
This was based off of an image prompt about a fallen angel, found right here. I wanted to attempt to write a story that was only dialogue based, even if it didn't highly fit the prompt. Ah well. Thank you for reading, and have a nice day!
"Hello."
"Is this the right number?"
"It depends. Who are you trying to call?"
"...a helpline."
"Any helpline in particular?"
"The suicide helpline. Aren't you supposed to have some sort of greeting?"
"Supposed to."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Where is the greeting? Why are you just answering the phone like I have the wrong number?"
"I don't much like the greeting. Too cheery."
"How can a greeting be too cheery?"
"Hello! Welcome to the suicide prevention helpline! We want you to know that we care and that your life is important. My name is Jimmy, how may I help you?"
"Are you patronizing me?"
"Could be."
"I'm going to commit suicide."
"No you're not. If you were, you would have done it by now instead of calling me."
"You're not very kind."
"Eh. I'm paid to take up enough of your time for the police to arrive. I'm not paid to care."
"...isn't the whole point of your job to care? To stop people from killing themselves?"
"Nah. My wage is mediocre, so my effort matches it. Like I said, nobody who is going to bother me is going to actually off themselves."
"What if I just wanted an audience?"
"Then you would do it in public."
"Fine, fine."
"Whats your name?"
"Michael."
"Okay Michael, let's have it."
"Have what?"
"Your life story. If you're not gonna off yourself, you might as well tell me an interesting story."
"My life isn't interesting."
"Everyone is interesting, you just need the right audience."
"What makes you the right audience?"
"Have you hung up yet?"
"...no."
"Are you going to?"
"No."
"That makes me the right audience. Thus, Michael, storytime."
"Okay, fine. My dad kicked me out of my home and told me never to return. My family disowned me and said they never wanted to see me again."
"Why did they kick you out?"
"My father is strict. The family obeys him without question. I did too, for awhile, but he got bad. Eventually I couldn't. So I was thrown out."
"And your friends?"
"I wasn't allowed any."
"No friends? Sounds rough."
"I don't know what friends are like. I wouldn't know."
"How do you feel?"
"Worthless, alone, lost, and stuck on a world considered the pit of no hope."
"Yeah, friends will help with that. You should try making some."
"How? I'm, a failure, a castaway left to this hellhole to rot and die with a mess of my father's other failures."
"Have you tried talking to someone?"
"I am."
"Try talking to someone else. I'm just a guy doing his job. Talk to a stranger. Someone random."
"I have no idea how."
"Do you drink coffee?"
"I don't know."
"You don't-alright, do you drink tea? Soda? Booze?"
"I don't know."
"Uh, how about food? Do you eat?"
"I think so."
"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrright, annnnnnnnnnyway, go eat? Meet someone else who eats? Do what you like doing. You like doing things?"
"I think so."
"You could be a bit less vague. What do you like doing?"
"Fighting."
"You sound as if you're just brimming with positive energy. What else?"
"I don't know. Maybe...dancing?"
"Alright, good. Join a dance club, take some lessons. Join a gym and spar with others. Do something other than moping around contemplating suicide. You'll find friends."
"But...whats the point? Why should I bother?"
"You have a world at your finger tips. If you're not going to take your life, you might as well live it."
"A whole world?"
"Yeah, a whole universe if you want to be daring and discover space. Point is, quit your pouting and find something better to do.'
"You're really not very nice."
"Yeah, well, I heard they might be giving me a raise. Once that goes through, maybe I'll work on it."
"You could try just...caring."
"You could try being less of a little bitch. We all have something we could fix."
"I miss my family."
"Your father and family sound like trash. Thank god you got away from them."
"Don't insult them."
"They kicked you out and left you alone. Not much of a family."
"I suppose. Maybe you're right."
"Thats the spirit!"
"Maybe it is."
"Damn straight it is. Anyway, police should be there anytime now. You good?"
"I think so. Thanks."
"No worries.You know what you're going to do?"
"Yeah. I have a whole world out there, just waiting to be conquered."
---------------------
This was based off of an image prompt about a fallen angel, found right here. I wanted to attempt to write a story that was only dialogue based, even if it didn't highly fit the prompt. Ah well. Thank you for reading, and have a nice day!
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
014 - "Countdown."
Eight minutes. Eight minutes is how long it takes for radiation from the great ball of fire in the sky to burst down upon our fragile little skin, bury between our molecules, and give us the friction-filled sensation of warmth. This means that if you use the jelly inside of your tiny eye sockets to squint into that burning ball of death, what you will be seeing is an eight minute old painting. You're experiencing the past. You're too slow to even be in the present.
Try and remember the last time you were in a classroom. The teacher stood in front of the class, their glasses tilted down at you just enough for you to think they were egotistical. Boredom clung to the back of your skull like a cat convinced you're about to give it a bath. Some nonsensical information was being blasted upon a screen that was both too bright for your weak, hungover mind to handle, but too dark for your glazed, doughnut shaped eyeballs to process.
Now imagine that freezes. Your teacher is stuck, their nose scrunched in rabid frustration as they try to shout the day's lesson into your overbearingly large skull. Spit molecules are sputtered about through the air, hanging like rainwater on a windshield. This scene is stuck with you, unmoving, for eight minutes. It takes eight minutes for any future information to be processed by your eager, budding mind.
Of course, by the time those eight minutes have passed, the sun, or your teacher, are somewhere completely new, doing something completely exciting and wonderful and you weren't invited, because you live eight minutes in the past. If the sun were to decide to up and leave our lost little solar system, you wouldn't even know it for eight whole minutes!
Seven minutes. Well, for the first minute of the sun saying, "Peace out hommie," - like your strange friend who isn't a friend but a roommate of a friend of a friend - for that full, wonderfully encapsulating minute, you were being a dunce. I'm sorry, that was mean. You were staring at the sun. Just zoning out, thinking about what it would be like if that brutally unfair teacher - because you're smarter than them - were to suddenly freeze in time and space. It was funny. It was fantastically, serotonin-releasing, blood-clotting, phone-rupturing, excellence.
But you wasted a whole minute! The last eight minutes of your life and you were day dreaming!
Six minutes. Uh, shit. Last two minutes day dreaming. You should probably spend less time talking with the voices in your head. Yes. But then you would be all alone for the remainder of your life. Those poor, lonely six minutes all alone, sitting in the scratchy green grass that hasn't been mowed in three weeks which is way too long and probably full of ticks and now your ankles itch and you only have six minutes to live but you don't really know that yet.
Five minutes. Alright, alright. Let's be serious now. Seriously, you have five minutes left. What can you do in five minutes? Call your family and tell them you love them? Well, maybe, but you don't love them that much! How about that crush? You could walk to their dorm room. Huh? They live in an apartment? How fancy of them. Are they rich, or just smarter than you?
Okay, okay. I'll be as chill as an Earth without sunshine. I don't mean to be mean, it's just-there are only five min-
Four minutes. Four minutes left of humanity. Is it just me, or did the first minute seem a lot longer than these other minutes? Like knowing that your life is about to end somehow sped up time? Unfair, really. I stare at that clock for hours on end and it never moves, but as soon as I'm enjoying myself, WOOSH, I'm a twenty-seven year old naked man with no home or family and I'm living in a prison cell because it's warmer than the frozen over cardboard box the old lady with the stereotypical homeless cart said was home.
Sorry, sorry. We were talking about you. How much time do you have left, four-
...
No? I'm not being cut off mid countdown again? Alright, so you still have fo-
Three minutes. Oh, now isn't that so darn-tootin annoying. These interruptions are horrendous! Please do something. You only have three minutes left until you look up into that big, bleak sky of endless crushed dreams and realize that the sun has vanished. No more warmth in your section of the great big unknown. Just a frozen tundra, with only the core of the planet to give you warmth. Hey! What a wonderful idea! You could move to Iceland. Dig a giant hole and live near the core of the Earth, under a volcano! You could be the last human ever. Maybe a wonderfully, spectacular species of generous, intelligent creatures would fly their spaceships by and notice your life sign buried deep down under the lush green, freshly mowed grass (that would be frozen over) that is Iceland. Then, they will save you, and whisk you off to explore the universe, to have wonderful misadventures with all sorts of new, exciting, and beautiful things for the rest of your naturally short human life!
You could repopulate humanity!
Two minutes. Yeah, you right, you're probably just going to die. You have two minutes now. Do you really not have any last wishes? No one who is even kinda cute who might live in a nearby dorm-room? You could run there, confess your wonderful, copied and prepared feelings intended for another human, and get some nasty, blood-pumping, kinky, end of the world Mario-kart races in.
...
Or, you know, sex. Can you finish in under a minute? Can you?
One minute. Oh, you've gone and buggered it all now. No-Keep your pants on! Even if you could finish in under a minute, whats the point now? Are you going to go out with your pants around your ankles, in a hot, sticky, itchy mess, thinking of the things you only dreamed of? Oh, look at that. Now you're crying. With your pants around your ankles. Buck up! It was a joke. The sun is fine! I mean, really, eight minutes? You really think that the sun is just going to disappear, and then you'll die in eight minutes? Hah!
Lights out. Well, will you look at that. Sorry, I was joking about the bit where I said I was joking. I didn't want you to cry anymore! You looked like a clown who had run into a mule's arse, then tried to wipe the shit off your face with fire ants and a side of hay-fever. You're looking much better now, though! That look of massive, erection bursting anger mixed with unbridled surprise seems to fit you. You should wear it more often. And pull up your pants. There is some good news!
The good news is, uh, well, maybe I should deliver the bad news first, so that the good news is more goodly? Like when the doctor sits down your family and say, "The bad news is, your 21 year old has cancer and the medical bills are going to cost around 200,000 dollars when all is said and done, even though you have medical insurance. But the good news is, he probably won't die! Probably."
I mean, the bad news is pretty obvious - the sun disappeared eight minutes ago! So, no more sunlight. Or warmth. But good news! Which is, uh, I was lying about the dying in eight minutes part. Obviously, since you're still alive. It'll start getting cold soon - like so cold that even ice will start to get frostbite - so you should probably pull up your pants. Seriously. You're making this weird. Pull them up. And you should probably find more pants, to put on top of your pants. Throw a pants party! Because ocean freezing, vegetation killing, Antarctica-feels-like-Hawaii, cold.
And you should move to Iceland. Because, uh, you have about two weeks before it gets so cold that your tiny, meatless, sinewy arms will snap off in the frigid air faster than you can shout, "Where did the sun go!?" It went on an elongated vacation and it isn't coming home until mommy stops being such a frigid bitch, okay? Okay!?
...
At least you have time to walk to your crush's apartment now. You better not throw away Mario-kart victories to get end of the world sex, either, or I will-
Oh, shit, here comes that teacher we hate. Gotta go. Good luck with the whole lights out thing!
---------------------
Well, that was interesting. Uh, for the original thread, follow this. Thanks for reading, and have an enjoyable afternoon.
Try and remember the last time you were in a classroom. The teacher stood in front of the class, their glasses tilted down at you just enough for you to think they were egotistical. Boredom clung to the back of your skull like a cat convinced you're about to give it a bath. Some nonsensical information was being blasted upon a screen that was both too bright for your weak, hungover mind to handle, but too dark for your glazed, doughnut shaped eyeballs to process.
Now imagine that freezes. Your teacher is stuck, their nose scrunched in rabid frustration as they try to shout the day's lesson into your overbearingly large skull. Spit molecules are sputtered about through the air, hanging like rainwater on a windshield. This scene is stuck with you, unmoving, for eight minutes. It takes eight minutes for any future information to be processed by your eager, budding mind.
Of course, by the time those eight minutes have passed, the sun, or your teacher, are somewhere completely new, doing something completely exciting and wonderful and you weren't invited, because you live eight minutes in the past. If the sun were to decide to up and leave our lost little solar system, you wouldn't even know it for eight whole minutes!
Seven minutes. Well, for the first minute of the sun saying, "Peace out hommie," - like your strange friend who isn't a friend but a roommate of a friend of a friend - for that full, wonderfully encapsulating minute, you were being a dunce. I'm sorry, that was mean. You were staring at the sun. Just zoning out, thinking about what it would be like if that brutally unfair teacher - because you're smarter than them - were to suddenly freeze in time and space. It was funny. It was fantastically, serotonin-releasing, blood-clotting, phone-rupturing, excellence.
But you wasted a whole minute! The last eight minutes of your life and you were day dreaming!
Six minutes. Uh, shit. Last two minutes day dreaming. You should probably spend less time talking with the voices in your head. Yes. But then you would be all alone for the remainder of your life. Those poor, lonely six minutes all alone, sitting in the scratchy green grass that hasn't been mowed in three weeks which is way too long and probably full of ticks and now your ankles itch and you only have six minutes to live but you don't really know that yet.
Five minutes. Alright, alright. Let's be serious now. Seriously, you have five minutes left. What can you do in five minutes? Call your family and tell them you love them? Well, maybe, but you don't love them that much! How about that crush? You could walk to their dorm room. Huh? They live in an apartment? How fancy of them. Are they rich, or just smarter than you?
Okay, okay. I'll be as chill as an Earth without sunshine. I don't mean to be mean, it's just-there are only five min-
Four minutes. Four minutes left of humanity. Is it just me, or did the first minute seem a lot longer than these other minutes? Like knowing that your life is about to end somehow sped up time? Unfair, really. I stare at that clock for hours on end and it never moves, but as soon as I'm enjoying myself, WOOSH, I'm a twenty-seven year old naked man with no home or family and I'm living in a prison cell because it's warmer than the frozen over cardboard box the old lady with the stereotypical homeless cart said was home.
Sorry, sorry. We were talking about you. How much time do you have left, four-
...
No? I'm not being cut off mid countdown again? Alright, so you still have fo-
Three minutes. Oh, now isn't that so darn-tootin annoying. These interruptions are horrendous! Please do something. You only have three minutes left until you look up into that big, bleak sky of endless crushed dreams and realize that the sun has vanished. No more warmth in your section of the great big unknown. Just a frozen tundra, with only the core of the planet to give you warmth. Hey! What a wonderful idea! You could move to Iceland. Dig a giant hole and live near the core of the Earth, under a volcano! You could be the last human ever. Maybe a wonderfully, spectacular species of generous, intelligent creatures would fly their spaceships by and notice your life sign buried deep down under the lush green, freshly mowed grass (that would be frozen over) that is Iceland. Then, they will save you, and whisk you off to explore the universe, to have wonderful misadventures with all sorts of new, exciting, and beautiful things for the rest of your naturally short human life!
You could repopulate humanity!
Two minutes. Yeah, you right, you're probably just going to die. You have two minutes now. Do you really not have any last wishes? No one who is even kinda cute who might live in a nearby dorm-room? You could run there, confess your wonderful, copied and prepared feelings intended for another human, and get some nasty, blood-pumping, kinky, end of the world Mario-kart races in.
...
Or, you know, sex. Can you finish in under a minute? Can you?
One minute. Oh, you've gone and buggered it all now. No-Keep your pants on! Even if you could finish in under a minute, whats the point now? Are you going to go out with your pants around your ankles, in a hot, sticky, itchy mess, thinking of the things you only dreamed of? Oh, look at that. Now you're crying. With your pants around your ankles. Buck up! It was a joke. The sun is fine! I mean, really, eight minutes? You really think that the sun is just going to disappear, and then you'll die in eight minutes? Hah!
Lights out. Well, will you look at that. Sorry, I was joking about the bit where I said I was joking. I didn't want you to cry anymore! You looked like a clown who had run into a mule's arse, then tried to wipe the shit off your face with fire ants and a side of hay-fever. You're looking much better now, though! That look of massive, erection bursting anger mixed with unbridled surprise seems to fit you. You should wear it more often. And pull up your pants. There is some good news!
The good news is, uh, well, maybe I should deliver the bad news first, so that the good news is more goodly? Like when the doctor sits down your family and say, "The bad news is, your 21 year old has cancer and the medical bills are going to cost around 200,000 dollars when all is said and done, even though you have medical insurance. But the good news is, he probably won't die! Probably."
I mean, the bad news is pretty obvious - the sun disappeared eight minutes ago! So, no more sunlight. Or warmth. But good news! Which is, uh, I was lying about the dying in eight minutes part. Obviously, since you're still alive. It'll start getting cold soon - like so cold that even ice will start to get frostbite - so you should probably pull up your pants. Seriously. You're making this weird. Pull them up. And you should probably find more pants, to put on top of your pants. Throw a pants party! Because ocean freezing, vegetation killing, Antarctica-feels-like-Hawaii, cold.
And you should move to Iceland. Because, uh, you have about two weeks before it gets so cold that your tiny, meatless, sinewy arms will snap off in the frigid air faster than you can shout, "Where did the sun go!?" It went on an elongated vacation and it isn't coming home until mommy stops being such a frigid bitch, okay? Okay!?
...
At least you have time to walk to your crush's apartment now. You better not throw away Mario-kart victories to get end of the world sex, either, or I will-
Oh, shit, here comes that teacher we hate. Gotta go. Good luck with the whole lights out thing!
---------------------
Well, that was interesting. Uh, for the original thread, follow this. Thanks for reading, and have an enjoyable afternoon.
Monday, February 3, 2014
013 - "Without saying the word love, write the most passionate love letter you can imagine."
Dear Little Lady,
Men are a curse upon the land that no natural calamity can fix. I, among such a low, unworthy species, share in this poor demeanor. I am sloppy, crude, crass, unreasonable, furious, and without a positive quality. I am a broken creature left to suffer with those who had wronged the universe in some forgotten and impossible way.
This is what I used to believe, before I stumbled into your presence. If men were a plague to be cast down upon the Earth, then it is with all my heart that I believe women were sent to fix such a mistake. Nothing holds the ability to tame man like that of a beautiful woman. I have witnessed men turn from the foulest of rabid beasts, to the most respectable, heaven blessed gift this galaxy could hope to see. Women have a way of taking darkness and spinning it into a thread blessed of purity.
For you, the most fetching of all women, I must admit that I have relinquished all control. My heart has not been my own since we first embraced, nor has my mind been in such a clear state as when I look upon thee. You have become my world, my home, and nothing would destroy me more than to have you lost in the oceans of man's destruction.
I am nothing without you. Please, return to me with the utmost haste.
Men are a curse upon the land that no natural calamity can fix. I, among such a low, unworthy species, share in this poor demeanor. I am sloppy, crude, crass, unreasonable, furious, and without a positive quality. I am a broken creature left to suffer with those who had wronged the universe in some forgotten and impossible way.
This is what I used to believe, before I stumbled into your presence. If men were a plague to be cast down upon the Earth, then it is with all my heart that I believe women were sent to fix such a mistake. Nothing holds the ability to tame man like that of a beautiful woman. I have witnessed men turn from the foulest of rabid beasts, to the most respectable, heaven blessed gift this galaxy could hope to see. Women have a way of taking darkness and spinning it into a thread blessed of purity.
For you, the most fetching of all women, I must admit that I have relinquished all control. My heart has not been my own since we first embraced, nor has my mind been in such a clear state as when I look upon thee. You have become my world, my home, and nothing would destroy me more than to have you lost in the oceans of man's destruction.
I am nothing without you. Please, return to me with the utmost haste.
Yours forever,
Lost Gentleman
-----------------------------
I maybe could have done this one better. Maybe. I'm not sure yet. For more from other lovely writers, follow this link! Have a nice day, and thank you for reading!
012 - "Let's run away."
It was early in the morning when my life changed. Maybe late at night, depending on what kind of person you are. As a detective, all times are both early and late. You get a call, you go to work. They tell you that nobody has touched the crime scene. They said that they had waited until I arrived. As soon as I stepped into the abandoned hotel room, I knew why.
For most people, the first thing that they would notice would have been the blood. It was spattered about the room as if a platter of red paint had been strewn across the room. Some of it had caked the walls for long enough that it had begun to dry, falling away with the scratch of a fingernail as if a ketchup stain on an old shirt. It smelled of iron and made your teeth feel suddenly heavy.
They might have noticed the bodies first. There were three of them. Two of them looked to have been bled dry, dark, thick pools of blood surrounding their bodies like a moat. The third was set up like a pawn in a chess match. It was a male, with a joker-esque smile carved into his face. His hair and clothes were similar to mine. He was tied to a chair, both of his bruised and battered hands placed out on the table in front of him. The corpse was holding a map spread out. Various marks were on the map from previous crimes. There was a dark red X exactly where the hotel was.
But as a detective, I had already seen too many scenes like this. I had already seen too many exactly like this one. It was my case. It was my serial killer. No, the first thing I noticed was the map, and the message that had been left for me. Over the location of my home were three rows of scrabble letters. They had been arranged to form three distinct words. "Let's run away." It was not the first message that had been left for me, but it was the worst. I knew what it meant.
I remember my stomach churning. I remember my senses suddenly being assaulted with the stench of blood, of the sudden sight of mutilated corpses all around me. It was as if I had awoken from a nightmare to find myself in another horrifying dream. My feet sloshed through puddles of dark, sticky blood as I backed away. I was overcome with the morbid scene, and I closed my eyes, trying to push it all away.
Let's run away. Let's run away. The words ran through my nauseated mind and I ran. I don't know where I ran, just that I fled the crime scene faster than a predator hunting it's prey. I was in my car and on the road before I realized what I was doing. I was home before I had a plan. I was vomiting before I even made it up the sidewalk to my door. I was on my knees, in a pool of my wife's blood, before I heard it out-loud: "Let's run away."
----------------------------
Could have been better, but it'll do. For more, and the source image, click here. Thanks for reading, and have a nice day!
For most people, the first thing that they would notice would have been the blood. It was spattered about the room as if a platter of red paint had been strewn across the room. Some of it had caked the walls for long enough that it had begun to dry, falling away with the scratch of a fingernail as if a ketchup stain on an old shirt. It smelled of iron and made your teeth feel suddenly heavy.
They might have noticed the bodies first. There were three of them. Two of them looked to have been bled dry, dark, thick pools of blood surrounding their bodies like a moat. The third was set up like a pawn in a chess match. It was a male, with a joker-esque smile carved into his face. His hair and clothes were similar to mine. He was tied to a chair, both of his bruised and battered hands placed out on the table in front of him. The corpse was holding a map spread out. Various marks were on the map from previous crimes. There was a dark red X exactly where the hotel was.
But as a detective, I had already seen too many scenes like this. I had already seen too many exactly like this one. It was my case. It was my serial killer. No, the first thing I noticed was the map, and the message that had been left for me. Over the location of my home were three rows of scrabble letters. They had been arranged to form three distinct words. "Let's run away." It was not the first message that had been left for me, but it was the worst. I knew what it meant.
I remember my stomach churning. I remember my senses suddenly being assaulted with the stench of blood, of the sudden sight of mutilated corpses all around me. It was as if I had awoken from a nightmare to find myself in another horrifying dream. My feet sloshed through puddles of dark, sticky blood as I backed away. I was overcome with the morbid scene, and I closed my eyes, trying to push it all away.
Let's run away. Let's run away. The words ran through my nauseated mind and I ran. I don't know where I ran, just that I fled the crime scene faster than a predator hunting it's prey. I was in my car and on the road before I realized what I was doing. I was home before I had a plan. I was vomiting before I even made it up the sidewalk to my door. I was on my knees, in a pool of my wife's blood, before I heard it out-loud: "Let's run away."
----------------------------
Could have been better, but it'll do. For more, and the source image, click here. Thanks for reading, and have a nice day!
Sunday, February 2, 2014
011 - "A disease is causing starfish's legs to crawl away in opposite directions until they tear away from its body - it spreads to humans."
Conspiracy theorists are the worst. Why, you must ask? They take every coincidence and turn it into a plot. They make you question reality, because you can rarely be one-hundred percent certain that the creator of these theories is crazy. Their questions are always so intriguing, and the answers so elusive. If you read enough of these theories, you start to wonder on the possibilities of the universe. Do aliens exist? Do humans exist? Do you exist?
The worst of these theories are the ones that have you questioning humanity. We are not a perfect species, but I would like to think that we are, overall, a rather positive form of evolution. Of course, hippies would like to remind you that we are constantly destroying the planet and its contents simply so that we may live in utter convenience - but what do these people know? We may destroy a few things here and there; but we create - oh boy do we ever create.
When evolution came along, I bet it never thought these hairless apes would ever get to space. I bet it never considered that we may one day be the dominate species of not only the plains, but the forests, the mountains, the sky, and the sea. Our ability to use tools is a marvelous gift - one that conspiracy theorists would have us believe is our downfall.
The theories I speak of are those of disease. These ideas date back hundreds of years to the creation of the black plague. Now, school children speak of it as a fairy tale, a story of how those devilish rats brought a terrible curse to humans. But was it the rats? Were the rats really the ones at fault, or could the humans have prevented it by being cleaner? By focusing more on medicine, and less on warfare? Taking a step back...how did the rats come to carry such a disease in the first place?
But the black plague was centuries ago. It no longer affects us. It is a dream. And yet, we manage to gather up and suffer from loads of other disease - all brought by animals. The most prominent of our age, of course, being HIV, and its child, AIDS. A disease that was discovered during a time of civil change, when the world was beginning to question how society works...and suddenly a disease appears that is said to target only gay men? These theorists would have you believe that there is no such thing as a coincidence.
I would have called them all fools, if it were not for our latest curse - the plague of the starfish. It was a myth, at first, as all things dangerous often are. There were pictures thrown around the internet of starfish who had torn themselves limb from limb. Impossible! It must be framed - set up, a ruse, some clever contraption to receive precious internet fame. Until it happened again. Another starfish tore itself apart, its limbs pulling in opposite directions until they simply popped off. It was horrendous. Terribly interesting, but horrendous all the same.
So we studied it. It appeared to be a genetic mutation, this disease. But there is no such thing as coincidence. The scientists were given mounds upon mounds of dead starfish to study, until they were practically covered in the broken and spattered limbs. For some, it was a researchers wet dream; for others, it was a nightmare of Hollywood proportions.
A scientist came forward, saying that they thought the disease may have been engineered. He was the first to go. The police thought he had been murdered, made to look like the starfish he had spent so many months studying. Until another one of his team-members died. And then another. And another. And then the crime investigator who had studied all of the victims, quickly followed by the rest of the police force. There were no such things as a coincidence.
From there, the disease spread beyond our control. We tried to quarantine it, to lock it down and have it eradicated, but we had no way of telling who had contracted it until their limbs were suddenly pulling in opposite directions. It spread and it spread, like limbs reaching outwards to the edges of humanity, until our very species was torn apart. We are no longer the lords of the sea, sky, mountains, or forests. We are losing our control of the plains. We are losing control of ourselves. There is no such thing as a coincidence.
---------------------
011 is taking the place of 010 because 010 is a long one that is still being edited! It shall appear when I am happy with it (as it is the only short story I have felt is a real short story so far), which will likely make it terribly out of order. Oops!
For the source of this prompt, clicky wicky! Thank you, and have a nice day!
The worst of these theories are the ones that have you questioning humanity. We are not a perfect species, but I would like to think that we are, overall, a rather positive form of evolution. Of course, hippies would like to remind you that we are constantly destroying the planet and its contents simply so that we may live in utter convenience - but what do these people know? We may destroy a few things here and there; but we create - oh boy do we ever create.
When evolution came along, I bet it never thought these hairless apes would ever get to space. I bet it never considered that we may one day be the dominate species of not only the plains, but the forests, the mountains, the sky, and the sea. Our ability to use tools is a marvelous gift - one that conspiracy theorists would have us believe is our downfall.
The theories I speak of are those of disease. These ideas date back hundreds of years to the creation of the black plague. Now, school children speak of it as a fairy tale, a story of how those devilish rats brought a terrible curse to humans. But was it the rats? Were the rats really the ones at fault, or could the humans have prevented it by being cleaner? By focusing more on medicine, and less on warfare? Taking a step back...how did the rats come to carry such a disease in the first place?
But the black plague was centuries ago. It no longer affects us. It is a dream. And yet, we manage to gather up and suffer from loads of other disease - all brought by animals. The most prominent of our age, of course, being HIV, and its child, AIDS. A disease that was discovered during a time of civil change, when the world was beginning to question how society works...and suddenly a disease appears that is said to target only gay men? These theorists would have you believe that there is no such thing as a coincidence.
I would have called them all fools, if it were not for our latest curse - the plague of the starfish. It was a myth, at first, as all things dangerous often are. There were pictures thrown around the internet of starfish who had torn themselves limb from limb. Impossible! It must be framed - set up, a ruse, some clever contraption to receive precious internet fame. Until it happened again. Another starfish tore itself apart, its limbs pulling in opposite directions until they simply popped off. It was horrendous. Terribly interesting, but horrendous all the same.
So we studied it. It appeared to be a genetic mutation, this disease. But there is no such thing as coincidence. The scientists were given mounds upon mounds of dead starfish to study, until they were practically covered in the broken and spattered limbs. For some, it was a researchers wet dream; for others, it was a nightmare of Hollywood proportions.
A scientist came forward, saying that they thought the disease may have been engineered. He was the first to go. The police thought he had been murdered, made to look like the starfish he had spent so many months studying. Until another one of his team-members died. And then another. And another. And then the crime investigator who had studied all of the victims, quickly followed by the rest of the police force. There were no such things as a coincidence.
From there, the disease spread beyond our control. We tried to quarantine it, to lock it down and have it eradicated, but we had no way of telling who had contracted it until their limbs were suddenly pulling in opposite directions. It spread and it spread, like limbs reaching outwards to the edges of humanity, until our very species was torn apart. We are no longer the lords of the sea, sky, mountains, or forests. We are losing our control of the plains. We are losing control of ourselves. There is no such thing as a coincidence.
---------------------
011 is taking the place of 010 because 010 is a long one that is still being edited! It shall appear when I am happy with it (as it is the only short story I have felt is a real short story so far), which will likely make it terribly out of order. Oops!
For the source of this prompt, clicky wicky! Thank you, and have a nice day!
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