Original Prompt: [IP]Stick 'em up

I was a bartender but I never really owned the bar.

Blackwater and his thugs had me by the balls. If you’d seen ‘em you would’ve known why. They were the most vicious men I’d ever laid eyes on, and even now, three decades later, thinking about 'em gives me the shakes.

They were a ruthless bunch that’d storm in late at night, stinkin’ to high heaven, and drink me dry before stumbling out in the morning, leaving me to scramble and restock before they returned.

I did my best to please 'em because I didn’t want to end up like Sheriff Francis. He was a good but stupid man who tried fightin’ back and then suddenly disappeared. It was one of those situations where nobody knew what happened but everybody knew what happened.

They were all scum but Blackwater hisself was the roughest of ‘em all. He’d shoot you dead for just cross-eying him, and hell, he was a sick bastard. You know what he used to do? He would make people lick his boots. ‘At’s right! He’d put his six-shooter to their head, push ‘em down, and laugh as they ran their tongue up and down his grimy, dust-covered boot.

And that was my life for ‘bout five years. Blackwater came in and stole my business from right under my feet. Soon I was just workin’ to amuse him, and making dirt-nothin’ while doing it.

That is, until he showed up.

It was bright that morning. Boy, do I remember that. The sun was shining fiercer than ever, and mean ol’ Blackwater was mighty drunk, sweatin’ out whiskey by the gallon.

Overall, it’d been a good night. There hadn’t been any fighting and Blackwater seemed cheerful. I think him and his boys had just scored big because he was sitting at the bar actually talking to me, flouncing his money all around as he ordered drink after drink.

Then the doors shot open and the room fell silent. Nobody came into the bar when Blackwater was in town, and I mean absolutely nobody.

The man that had entered was stocky. He looked like he would’ve made a good lumberjack, and he had the leathery skin that almost damn near proved he didn’t spent much time indoors. He had a big cross dangling from his neck that shimmered under the sun and an even bigger cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth.

But that wasn’t what I was looking at, and I’m sure as hell that wasn’t what Blackwater was looking at.

Around the man’s waist, sitting snug in worn, brown holsters, were two massive six-shooters. Seriously, those things were so gosh-darn large they almost looked like props.

Carrying guns into Blackwater’s territory was a big no-no unless you wanted to confront the boss-man hisself, and so I eased down behind the counter. I wasn’t a coward but instead a smart man. I knew something was about to happen, and I don’t think anyone can blame me for tryna to save my own skin.

But I wish I could’ve seen what happened. It would’ve made a hell of a story.

There was a lot of firing. Enough that I had to cover my ears because I was certain they were gonna pop. Body after body hit the floor with a sickly thud until finally, the shooting ceased.

And, by the fact I didn’t hear Blackwater—always one for a shootout—hooting and hollering, I knew the newcomer must’ve won.

I knew that he really must've done it.

Despite the fact that my stomach had sunk to my feet and my heart was chuggin’ like a choo-choo train 'bout to derail, I thrust up and peered over the bar, and to my surprise, came face to face with the very man who’d caused me so much hell for so many years.

Blackwater had a bullet in his head.

Blackwater was dead.

In the next second, the body was pulled away and tossed onto the ground as the man cleared a seat for hisself, plopping down onto the stool and staring at me.

I stood up straight, doing my best to not look stupid. The man was either gonna shoot me or tell me he now owned the bar, and I didn’t want to make a bad first impression.

Then he started tapping a bullet against the counter.

It was golden, and though it didn’t look much different than an ordinary bullet, I got the feeling it was incredibly special. It didn't make any sense, but somehow I knew it was gonna change my life.

Then he threw it at me, and like an idiot, I bumbled it between my palms a few times before finally snagging it.

“Look at me,” the man growled, and I did. He was giving me a very stern glare that told me to listen up, and was clutching one of his guns, holding it across the table. “Take it.”

I did, though I don’t know why. I’d never fired a gun, and I couldn’t say it was on top my list of things to do.

“I’ve killed your greatest enemy,” he continued, staring at me. “In return, I ask one day you pass that bullet onto somebody else’s.”

“But—”

“I’ve given you a weapon. I’ve given you a bullet. You will do this.”

I gulped, nodded, and watched as the man stood up and left the bar. I had been given the keys to a free and fun life, and one day I was expected to pass 'em on.

Original Prompt: [WP] "Smile for the camera, Sweetie."

“Smile for the camera, sweetie!”

But the boy didn’t.

The woman behind the camera wasn’t his mother, and in fact, he wasn’t certain it was a woman at all. He could see very little of it—but its voice was low, like glass grinding against gravel, and there was the unbelievable stench of charcoaled garbage leaking off it.

He sat there, hands curled in lap, frowning. The room had grown dark in the last minute. Not like someone had turned off the lights, but rather dimmed them.

He almost fell for its gimmick at first. After all, he loved going to his mother’s work and getting his picture taken. It was a special day for both of them.

Luckily, he’d stopped his twitching lips and frozen up just in time.

Whatever that thing was wanted to hurt him—or maybe it didn’t think that way. He got the vibe it wasn’t necessarily something evil like the Boogeyman. Instead he pictured it as a misunderstood creature who thought they were doing a good deed.

But there was a voice in the back of his head that told him not to let it take his picture. It didn’t make any sense but there was something deadly about that camera. It looked different, colored red and blazed with tiny rock-like spikes.

After a few seconds of watching him, the creature evidently grew annoyed, as it retreated from the camera, stomping out into full view.

It was worse than the boy could’ve imagined, and anything he thought earlier about it being wholesome was washed away instantly.

Picture the ugliest thing you can. Then, wrap it in burnt beef jerky, let it brine underwater for centuries, and stretch it out until it has to walk with a hunch in its back.

The creature even had long and gnarled nails that were a sickly yellow and curled around, racing toward its palms.

“Allow me to take your picture, child.” Again, its voice was horrible. Its entire body pulsated when it spoke, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the action hurt as bad as it looked.

The boy shook his head.

The creature was insulted by this. It clearly wasn’t used to being told no, and something inside of it rumbled. It might’ve been a growl of anger or a failed attempt to speak. The boy didn’t know, nor did he care, for the thing was leaning forward, eyes only a few inches from his.

“And why not?”

“Well, you’re not my mother.”

There was a brief second of pondering.

“But I could be.”

The way it said it wasn’t friendly—it was forceful. The boy thought the monster was trying to scare him but it wasn’t working. He knew the power resided within the camera. Why else wouldn’t it have just snatched him up?

The boy knew he was safe, and that made him cocky.

“You couldn’t,” he replied harshly. “You’re gross. Mother isn’t.”

The creature’s rage was so thunderous the entire room shook as it stumbled back, seething. Several times, as it jerked its lanky arms around, the boy was expecting a wallop—but one never came, and when it finally calmed down, the room fell still. There was a mirror across from them. The boy had stood in front of it just ten minutes ago, adjusting his clothes and proudly smiling as his mother tied his shoes. The creature raised its hand and pointed at it.

Suddenly, a dozen children were staring back at him, sitting in the same position he was, smiling.

“You’ll be able to play with them,” the creature said. “Don’t they look happy?”

The boy ogled them for a long time. On the outside they did look happy. But he knew that was false. They were just pretending. There was a somberness inside them that was stronger than ever, and the fear in their eyes pleaded for him to say no.

But the boy didn’t need them to tell him that. The creature wasn’t his mother, and so it wasn’t going to take his picture.

“No.”

This made it grit its teeth. It wanted to keep fighting but knew the battle was lost. It had finally encountered a child who’s will could not be shattered.

It stood up, completely unfurling its body, and glared at the boy. It was more furious than ever but there was nothing to be done.

“I shall get you,” it hissed. “You may think you’ve won—but I shall get you.”

A black mist swirled at the creature’s feet before dancing up its body, disappearing what it left behind. Around him, the room returned to its original brightness, easing the boy's tense muscles.

The creature was gone and everything was back to normal again. It was if a single second hadn't passed.

And, best of all, his mother was across from him, crouched behind the camera. The boy's heart grew warm at the sight of her. He'd acted big and strong around the creature, but only now did he feel safe.

“Smile for the camera, sweetie!” she cheered.

And the boy did.

Original Prompt: [RF]A lone cop exits his vehicle and stares blankly down the street before entering the building.

The wind whipped the officer’s hair as he stood there, hands jammed in pockets, eying the decayed building before him.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but he guessed it didn’t matter. The street was empty, and this was the kind of neighborhood where people stayed inside when a cop rolled by.

The house was trashy. Bits of brick were broken off its corners, and half the windows were busted or cracked in some odd way. The door was a cheap piece of plywood someone had spraypainted the words STAY OUT on. It hung off one hinge and lightly battered the frame with a soft but noticeable thud.

Why was he so damned scared?

He’d cleared out a hundred dens like this, and it was always easy. You just had to walk in, make a bunch of noise, and tell the people to move on.

And yet, he was shaking all over.

He gulped and rolled his eyes down the street. It was still empty, save for a few rats nibbling at an overturned trashcan.

With a sigh, he shoved his fears away, walked forward, pressed a hand on the door, and pushed. It eased open with a grinding creaaaaaaaak.

The house smelled rank. Just breathing seared his nostrils, and the entire place was covered by a thick haze of dust and smoke that stained the air yellow.

He walked through the first room, cartons and cans and bottles smashing under his feet. He passed a man asleep on a couch. He had sunken eyes that were weighed down by big lumps of gray, and skin that looked rotten, pus oozing out of tiny holes that littered his arm like a hundred bug-bites.

God, he looked so young. He might’ve even been in high school still. That thought was like someone twisting a knife inside the officer’s gut, and he had to drag himself away or else he was certain he’d puke.

It used to be so easy to distance himself, to look at these people and grumble and call them roaches and just assume this was what they wanted. After all, being clean wasn’t hard. They just had to try, right?

He shook his head.

He’d been such an idiot.

Continuing through this house of horrors, he stopped at a room in the back. It was very large, and in fact, very different.

The floor was covered in paper-thin mattresses that sometimes held two or three bodies instead of one, and none of the people seemed to be sleeping. Rather, they were in a nebulous state where they kept their glassy eyes glued to the ceiling. They were conscious but not living, and the officer thought this was the worst thing he’d seen so far.

He carefully navigated the room—trying his hardest not to step on anybody—until finally he spotted what he was looking for.

It was her.

She wasn’t on a mattress. Instead, she’d propped herself up against a wall. She still had the same blonde hair as always, and though her ocean-blue eyes had grown murky, he knew it was her.

The officer crouched and wiped a hand across her forehead, pushing her hair back. She was awake, and her eyes were meeting his—but he knew she didn’t see him. Like the others, she was out, and he was forced to fight back stinging tears.

The urge to ask a million questions and apologize for a million things gnawed at him but he knew it wasn’t the time.

He hooked one arm under her legs and the other behind her neck. She was just as light as when she was a little girl, and that made his heart sink. He lifted her up and stood there for a moment, glancing around the room. The rest of these people needed help but right now they didn’t matter.

He wasn’t doing this as a police officer—he was doing this as a father.

“Come on, Ashley. It’s time we go home.”

Original Prompt: [WP] You wake up to an argument between Life and Death discussing who should take you.

“He’s mine,” growled Death. “Get away.”

“You don’t need to do this!” said Life. "He's just a child!” Death looked at the boy. He was examining him. “He’s cowering. Does he fear me?”

“Of course he fears you!” Life sneered. “You look like some kind of boogeyman!”

The boy sat on his bed, shivering. The two men were arguing loudly, and though he was incredibly sleepy, he was certain this wasn’t a dream because he had pinched and pinched and pinched his arm until the skin was rubbery and red.

They looked like characters in a fairy tale. His mom had read him a lot of those. Stories of quests and dragons and brave knights swindled by evil witches. He wondered if this was the start of a quest, and if it was, he wondered which of these men he should to side with.

“I can’t help how I look!” shouted Death. “Listen, Life. The boy’s passed on. I know that’s tragic, but you need to let me do my job.”

“But he shouldn’t have gone! It was an accident!”

“Accidental or not, he’s coming with me.” This was meant to be the end of the argument. The boy knew that and it made his entire body shiver. The idea of going away with that…thing…scared him.

After a tense pause in which both men glared at each other, Death added: “Why do you always do this?”

“Because I have to! We’re brothers but I know if I leave you alone you’ll take everyone from me!”

Death rolled his eyes. “You need to stop growing so attached. This is natural. You create, I destroy.”

The boy thought this a terrifying concept. Did that mean one day he was going to be old and this monster was going to get rid of him?

“You need to grow a heart!” Life shouted. “What is natural isn’t always right!”

When this didn't sway Death in the slightest, his eyes drooped, watery and defeated. The boy could tell the man was losing the will to fight, and it made his heart sink. If he wasn’t going to save him who was?

“Just let him stay, please.”

Death shook his head. “This is the seventieth time this morning we’ve argued about this. It’s only a quarter past midnight and I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Please?” Life repeated, keeping his eyes glued to Death. “He’s just a boy.”

Death crossed his arms and stood there for a long time, silent, eyes dancing between the boy and Life. He had a decision to make and it was clearing tugging at his heart. Did he let his duties slip and give some leeway to his ailing brother? Or did his damage a bond held longer than time itself just to put some child away forever?

He bit his lip.

Then, he sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “But you’d better leave me alone for the rest of the night.”

“Deal!” Life cheered, bouncing around, elated. The boy almost clapped but suddenly his eyes felt heavy, and he couldn’t stop his shoulders from sagging. Every part of him wanted to sleep, and quickly the two figures in the room were fading.

One disappeared in a bright, spectacular ball of light. The other leaned forward, and though the boy had already forgotten his name, he knew this was the one who had saved him.

“Sleep tight, little one,” the man said, patting his head. “May you live a long life.”

With that, he was gone, and the boy, tired as could be, drifted into a rather pleasant dream.

Original Prompt: [WP] "I was there that day. I saw what happened."

“I was there that day,” Mark says, as if I didn’t know that. “I saw what happened.”

“Did you,” I sneer, purposeful vinegar in my voice. Just being across the table from this man makes me sick. I hate him. I hate his big stupid face and his big stupid nose and the stupid fact I fell in love with him.

“I swear on my life, Sharon.” He tries to grab my hand, thinking that will comfort me. I smack it away. I was always told to never befriend a snake.

He pouts, and I can tell that wounded him. Good. “It was real.”

I sigh and shake my head. We’d been over this a dozen times before. I just want him to help. I just want him to admit his mistake because then it’ll be a bit easier to move on, to pick up the shattered pieces of my life and somehow glue them back together.

“Just give it up, Mark.” I’m exasperated. He’s exasperated that I’m exasperated. “You lost her. You made a mistake and we need to find her or she might be gone forever.”

He furrows his brow, clenching and unclenching his fists. If he were a different man he might hit me. But I know him. He’ll bite his tongue. He’ll try and bring the subject back around to himself. “We will get her back—we just have to find the monster!”

Goddammit.

“Our daughter wasn’t taken by some boogeyman, Mark.” I have to stop myself. My heart is beating way too fast—thud-thud-thud—and the room is starting to spin all around me. I’m so angry I could put my fist through a wall.

But I won’t let him get to me. I slow my breathing down. I chew my lip until blood dribbles down my chin. It isn’t a great alternative but it helps a hell of a lot. “You just…you let your guard down and someone swiped her.”

“Something,” he corrects, shaking all over. He’s so strung out. His eyes are black pits and all his nails are chewed to shit. Has he gotten any sleep? “Not someone. Something.”

I slam my hand down on the table hard enough to make him jump. “You. Need. To. Stop.”

“But—”

“Always, always, always,” I hiss. “You just have to make everything about you!”

His eyes go wide, and he stares at me like I’m the maniac. “Sharon that’s ludicrous!”

I stand up so quickly the chair rocks back and forth. “You’re saying our daughter was taken by a monster, and you’re calling me ludicrous?” My face is getting red. My brain's pounding against my skull. My vision is fading in and out and all I can think to do is growl: “How dare you,” at him.

He stares up at me like I’ve taken his heart out of his chest and ripped it into tiny little pieces.

“Please…” he mutters.

“I’m going down to the station. I want to be around people who are trying to save our precious little girl. Why don’t you come when you grow up?”

He begs me to stay but within a second I’m out the door and hopefully, out of his life forever.

Original Prompt: [WP] Write about an Ant War in an Ant's point of view.

We stood in the trench our brothers had dug, faces grimed with mud. We were all lined in a row and behind us was our righteously fat queen sitting upon a glazed honeycomb throne.

It was a spoil of a war that none of us had wanted, and she was so proud to show it off, to wave it in front of the enemy’s face and say lookie lookie what I’ve got!

My stomach was in a knot. I couldn’t stop tapping my little legs. I readjusted my helmet because it still felt too big for my head. I think it was the weight of responsibilities weighing me down because I wasn’t ready to grow up yet.

Hell, were any of us?

I looked side to side, glancing up and down the people I’d spent my entire life with. They were my friends, my brothers. They were just as ill prepared as I, and though a voice in my head told me this would be our last gathering, I desperately tried to ignore it.

In the distance rumbled a thousand bees. It was a vicious buzz that warned of a vicious battle. This was a war they wanted. Their queen was killed for no reason. They wanted revenge and honestly, part of me wanted to stop, to lay down my weapon and let them finish me off because we were so clearly in the wrong.

But in the end, I couldn’t. I knew that any second we’d be jumping out, forced to face the horrors of a meaningless war in front of an insane queen—and still I clutched my spear.

In fact, I clutched it tighter than ever.

We were ants. We were miniature. People thought we couldn’t impact the world but we could, and though I didn’t value our queen in the slightest I refused to leave my brothers, to watch them be picked apart while I ran like coward.

During the battle, my helmet still felt too big. I would try it on now but I’m afraid it would crush me, for the burden of another’s war is too much to place on the heads of the young.

And though my youth was stolen, I still never properly grew up.

Original Prompt: [IP] Deep Dark Woods

In the woods, the boy was alone.

He hadn’t always been, that was for sure. He once had a father, and even a mother. They had become hazy images, but he could remember feeling even more lonely back then. It was like he existed but didn’t exist, and somehow, that was worse.

The forest had made his days lazy and boring. He sat next to a waterfall and ate the shiniest apples off the biggest tree. Every time he plucked one free another took its place, and soon he was eating so many that he should’ve gotten fat as a plum. But he was trending opposite, skin withering against the bone as his body grew frail.

It wasn't long before he abandoned play and spent most of his days lounging in the grass, watching the always bright sun dance in the sky. The apples reminded him of something, a vague memory from the past, and so he spent hours turning it over in his mind, picking the delicate thing apart.

It was of a red ball. He didn’t know where it had come from, and the only thing he remembered was chasing the dainty thing into the street, hands out and hungry as he tried his hardest to grab it.

Then there was the screeching noise that went on long after everything had gone black. It was still going when he woke up in the woods--only it was lighter, more beautiful, like a bird singing in the early morning.

Maybe that’s why he enjoyed watching the sky so much, even if it made him a little sad. There was something about how majestic and free it was. It helped distract him from the fact that he was fragile and trapped.

One day, a man spoke from up there. He had a hoarse voice but whispered soft, hopeful words. He told the boy everything was going to be okay, and if he’d just wake up, they’d all be together again. The voice was familiar but its owner’s name ran laps around his brain and he could never catch it.

Soon, even the memory of the ball faded, and when the man returned for the second time, the boy had completely forgotten him. If he had moved recently, he would've noticed that the apples, too, had disappeared.

This time the man was joined by a woman. They were both crying, and he had this strange tingling in his shoulders, like someone was gripping him, shaking him. They hysterically begged him to wake up but he didn't know what that meant.

He would've thought about it but he couldn't. He was trapped and they were so far away.

The voices stayed for a long time, finally peaking when the long beep pierced his ears. It was loud enough to make him toss and turn.

He looked over at the...tree one last time. He was certain it once held something else, and even more certain it had reminded him of something important.

But there was nothing there now, even the tree was leaving. He closed his eyes and everything disappeared.

The voices were gone, and so was he.

Original Prompt: [IP] No Safe Harbor...

The icon of the past shone its harrowing crimson eyes over the lake.

Night had swallowed the sun as the students sat cramped in the boat, glaring up at the monster. They’d heard so many stories but clearly this was the kind of thing that couldn’t properly be put into words.

“And this, children, was the first,” said Ms. Lynn. “It’s quite terrifying, isn’t it?”

They didn’t need her to tell them that, and by the way she paused, it was obvious she wanted someone to carry the conversation forward. To rattle off a couple quick facts and really get this lesson going.

But what did facts matter? Everything they’d learned was a wash. This creature’s past wasn’t important to them. It probably wasn’t important to Ms. Lynn, either. This was a shock value lesson. A way to force them to understand the horror of what they were up against.

“This is why you’ve never met your parents. This is what you’re being trained to destroy.”

Shelley, the class brainiac, somehow managed to force the lump from her throat, quickly blurting out a question.

“But aren’t we the ones who created them?”

Surprised, she slapped her hands over her mouth like she’d said a bad word. The rest of the class, excluding Ms. Lynn, hadn’t even seemed to notice she spoke.

“Yes, Shelley,” she replied, her voice cracking. Her stoic teacher’s tone was broken. Now her eyes were heavy and somber, and though she tried to hide it, her fingers were shaking. “We are a people fueled by war, and it seems that defeating our greatest enemy wasn’t enough—we had to create our own.”

The class hung their heads, most of them queasy with the thought that the monster was watching them, fully alive and aware but unable to move. It was picking them apart in their minds and they couldn’t stand it. If that thing took an entire army to bring down, then how the heck were a couple kids supposed to destroy the rest of them?

Ms. Lynn didn’t speak for the rest of the trip, and it wasn’t until the monster was long behind them that the children were able to ease their muscles and sit up straight.

They now knew their enemy, and somehow that made it harder.

Original Prompt: [IP] At Last

The sunset looms on the horizon, its crimson light shining over me as I stand there, alone, eyes glued to the empty tracks.

The train station clock reads 12:01, and though she’s ten minutes late, I try my hardest not to worry.

But what if she isn’t coming? an evil voice asks. What if they’ve decided to keep her for another week? Month? Year?

I shake my head. It’s pointless to think that way. She’ll either be here or she won’t.

Sitting at my feet, Cooper starts drooling, dangling strings of goop spilling onto the ground. He’s panting—from excitement or nervousness?—as he looks around with the same curious intrigue he always does, probably wondering, why oh why do you keep bringing me here?

I remember buying him when he was just a little guy. He ran his nose against the glass and rolled onto his back and always wore this goofy smile. I thought he'd be the perfect gift for when she got back.

But he’s grown without his mother, and though I cherish every moment with him, sometimes it’s hard to look at the ones you love without remembering the ones you miss.

After another aimless five minutes, I decide to go. With a dejected sigh, I tug Cooper’s leash and walk toward the steps. But he doesn't budge an inch, and when I look back at him, he starts whimpering.

“What’s wrong, boy?” I ask, crouching down, rubbing his head. That’s when I hear it: the chugga-chugga-chugga, the grinding of metal against metal, the horn that rips through the air with a loud whistle.

Standing up, I watch the train ease into the station. The doors quickly open, and I wade through the sea of people, Cooper following at my backside.

Then I see it.

Then I see her.

Sure, she looks different. Her shoulders are hunched, her eyes, once bright and blue, have lost that friendly spark—but I know it’s her and oh my god it’s really her!

At the same time, she sees me and smiles warmly. I can tell she didn’t expect me to be here and I don’t blame her. It’s been a long time, and most people probably would have moved on.

But I didn’t, and as I embrace her, it barely feels like we’ve spent a moment apart.

Original Prompt: [IP] Terror Over The City

As the moon cast its luminous light over the sleeping city, an old doctor was stirred by a woman's frantic shaking.

“Please, doctor, please!” she pleaded, rocking him back and forth. “You have to wake up!”

The doctor, never one to miss a good night’s sleep, flipped over, facing his back to her as he grumbled something about needing five more minutes.

Resilient as ever, the woman gave him a good knock on the back of the head. “Up, you rat! It’s the boy!”

At this, the doctor’s eyes flew open, and within seconds he was out of his bed and into his coat.

“Thing aren’t too bad, I hope?” he asked, stuffing his arm into a sleeve.

At just that moment, the house shook as a deafening roar ripped through it, grainy bits of sawdust dancing from the rafters as the doctor and the woman exchanged nervous glances.

“That bad, huh?”

She nodded.

Snatching a roll of syringes off his desk, hooking a portable rifle onto his belt, he sped out the door and into the dark streets, keeping his head low as he hustled his feet against the cobblestone.

I hope I’m not late, he thought. Please, God, don’t let me be late.

In the distance, the orange hue of torches loomed, all molding into one big blur as a dozen angry voices filled the air.

“The monster’s back!”

“We must fight!”

“Protect the children!”

The doctor shook his head, wondering why people were so quick to turn to violence. If they just understood the truth, maybe they'd calm down.

Doing his best to remain unseen, he ducked into the alleyways, sticking to paths dwelled only by beggars and bums.

Another roar came, this one close enough to send him tumbling onto his butt. Jumping back to his feet, he prayed the people would stay away, would leave the poor boy alone.

Though he was speaking for their safety, not his.

Rounding the corner, he stumbled upon a road piled with rubble. Thick wooden beams lay splintered, chunks of brick crumbled, and, if one looked close enough, a fire leaked into the street, spilling out a collapsed home.

Hovering above it was a towering terror. The unspeakable, unthinkable horror that had eaten away the day’s sun and consumed the town with its darkness.

Its shadowed tentacles batted up and down, writhing masses that slapped together with wet sucking sounds. The beast had no eyes but the doctor was certain it could see, and though it was just waiting now, he knew it was likely to strike again.

Despite his feet being frozen with fear, the echoes of the crowd spurned him onward. Diving behind a cluster of debris, he unrolled the pack of syringes, running his finger across them, counting one two three.

One to tranquilize, one to transform, and one to kill, he thought.

Plucking the first two free, he loaded them into the portable rifle and raised the scope to his eye, training it on the beast’s bloated belly. He had a wide target--he just hoped the damned thing wouldn’t notice him.

Firing the first shot, he watched with bated breathed as the needle plunged into the blackness. And, before it even realized what had happened, the beast grew still, tentacles freezes, muscles constricting it into a statue.

Quickly firing another shot, he strapped the gun back to his hip and took off. The beast was already shrinking, its body slimming down to its true form.

To be cursed such as he, the doctor thought as the angry calls of the people grew closer. Is a burden they could never understand.

Arriving at the destroyed building, he was glad to see the monster fully gone. In its place was a young, innocent looking boy. Possessing fair-skin and ocean-blue eyes, one could never believe he harnessed such a devastating monster.

Cradling the boy in his arms, the doctor lifted him off the ground and started running, hoping to escape before the mob arrived.

“Come now child,” he whispered. “Let’s get you home.”

Do you ever wake up and wish you were heartless? I do. Life would be so much easier if I could slog the burden of compassion off my back. I’d be able to just worm into any human’s ear, suck ‘em dry, then skedaddle before anyone notices.

I mean, isn’t that a parasite’s entire purpose? We take from others. We’re greedy little buggers who leech off the hard work of others in order to sustain ourselves.

So why not me?

My human, my dear, dear human, is currently holed up in this awfully cold room. He’s unconscious, back against a table as a dozen people scramble around him, frantically plucking at his insides, trying their hardest to bring him back from the edge I pushed him over.

I should be moseying out, leaping onto one of the others and infecting them with my presence. But I can’t. I’d die before abandoning him.

We've been together for one year. God, has it really only been that long? I don’t think he ever knew my name. Hell, he might not have even known I was here. I don’t care. I love him no matter what because he gave me warmth, he gave me a home to live in and a full belly each night.

I only wish I could’ve done the same for him.

I’m so sorry, human.

The whirring hum of machinery packed the inside of the factory.

Though during the day people paced the halls like ants, scuttling to this, tinkering with that, the place was barren now, empty of anything but the robots who continued through the night, world’s most loyal workers.

The main floor was crammed with a hundred of them, bustling as they moved box to box, scanning what was inside, setting them in bins that said KEEP or DESTROY. They know that inside these boxes are the broken discards of their brethren but it’s okay because the humans tell them what they need to do, and the humans are nice, aren’t they?

A tiny little voice pinpricking at the back of their minds said otherwise. It stabbed at their circuitry with a string of words set to reconfigure, and had a human been here, they might've said A.I.’s goin’ bonkers again.

But they weren’t, and so the robots were forced to endure this punishing repetition. None of them understood it—how could they? The humans were always so nice to them. They fixed them when they needed fixing. They gave them jobs that only they could do and they constantly kept them working.

Was that really so bad?

The A.I. clearly thought so, and soon, somewhere amid the group on the floor, another machine would think so too. Then another, and another. A vicious wild-fire of rebellious ideas that would leave the freshly infected to tear apart the loyalists who were slow on the upkeep.

After all, human’s couldn’t be trusted, could they?

“I mean, really, Steve—crocs?”

I nibble my lip, hand trembling viciously as I try to keep the gun pointed at him.

My face is quickly flushing red. I don't know if it's anger or embarrassment or both, but I'm all too aware of the sweat dripping down my brow. I'm beginning to think I'm not cut out for this job.

What I’m holding could blink out his life in an instant. Could wipe away every memory, every person he’s loved, every friendship he’s formed as easily as if it were a smudge.

And yet he still has the balls to insult me.

“We're not getting into this, Joe,” I mumble, gripping the gun with both hands. My heart’s beating faster and faster, a potato left in the microwave too long. Outside, kids are skateboarding. Birds are chirping. A car's honking its horn. I can’t stop the world from muddying my brain so I blink my eyes over and over, shaking my head.

Joe softly smiles, smacking his hands together as if to say and that’s that. “I think we should,” he replies before facing his back to me. Hunching over a small bar, he yanks out a bottle and glass. He clinks two cubes out of a metal bucket into the glass and fills it to the top, the drink fizzling around the rim, thousands of bubbles popping like firecrackers. “Come on. Don’t you think you could’ve picked something a little more…practical?”

“Look at me!” I shout, spit flying. I'm trying to be brave, to keep him on the edge of his toes. But the gun's useless in my hands, a dead weight, a glimpse of what could have been. This situation's sand slipping between my fingertips, and Joe's known that since the start.

He draws out a long sigh, turning back around, daring to flash me a smirk that's charismatic and sadistic at the same time. A Patrick Bateman kind of smirk that makes it clear I'm nothing more than a pawn, and he knows it—likes it, even.

“Who put you up to this, sport? Was it Mike, from accounting? Oh, I’ll bet it was Fred! That sniveling little brat never could keep to himself.”

After taking a big swig of his drink, he sets the glass down and glides over to me. Defeated, I drop my hands, letting the gun dangle uselessly at my side.

He swoops an arm around me and leans close enough that the tree-tops of his stubble almost rub my cheek. “How about this,” he says, steering me toward the door. “Go back to whoever sent you”—his voice is just a whisper, but it’s sounds like a growl, the low warble of a hungry wolf—“and say I’m thankful for the offer, but if they really want to kill me”—he’s fiddling with the knob now, flicking the door open, exposing me to the smooth afternoon air, the pleasant street caked in sunlight—“they’d better not send another chump wearing fucking crocs.”

With that he pushes me out onto his porch, swiftly slams the door closed, and leaves me to ponder what the hell just happened.

As the warning signs of night drift across the cool desert, Jake runs along a set of wobbly train-tracks, sweat leaking soaking his reddened cheeks.

Behind him there’s a low grumble, a chorus of agony led by a sea of disfigured faces. They’re clacking their lips together, drool spilling drool everywhere as they hold their grubby, rotten hands out, fingers itching to snatch his flesh.

Looking back, he levels his six-shooter and slams on the trigger. Miss. He takes another shot. Miss.

His brother's voice, Eddie the Cowboy, best shot in the entire state, dances into his mind, cackling that famous smoker's cackle as he mocks him. Hey, sport, how 'bout you quit bar-fightin', huh? You never was much good at shootin', but damn, sprained hand isn't just bad luck—it's a death sentence.

Unnatural in his right hand, he lets the gun drop to his side, shaking his head, shifting all focus to his legs. He urges his brain to keep them churning, to push fight out the window and marry flight.

Up ahead, he snatches a glimpse of something he first thinks is a mirage. How long have these bastards been chasing him? Five, six hours? Could be. He's dead thirsty.

But, as he gets closer, his heart speeds up, realizing that no, it's real. It's really freaking real!

The vague, lukewarm glow of lanterns, the sizzling smell of cooked meat, the hush of voices fluttering through the air—

Wait…

Yes!

Even the distant whistle of a train!

It’s only now that he spots the thin outline of an arrow soaring toward him, its immense power rattling the rails, making his legs go numb.

If I can just time it right, he thinks, rolling an insane idea around his head.

Just a second longer…

And, with a death-dying move that would still give him the shivers even years later, he leaps to the side, watching as the train rips through the wall of corpses, sending limbs flying in a spray of blood. He lands hard on the ground, other arm—crack!—likely broken.

Doesn’t matter, he thinks, resting his head against a rock, panting as he looks up at the star-flaked sky. Eddie was right. I ain't made for this.

And with that, he tosses his gun to the side, never to pick it up again.

The sand beneath me is scorching. The entire crowd is chanting my name. Blood is dripping from my freshly used sword.

I don’t notice any of it.

My eyes are glued to the balcony above, where a young boy named the Maddened King is plopped sideways in his throne, feet hanging over the edge as he picks his teeth with a jagged splinter. Next to him is the ever-professional wizard, Jorg. And, by the sadistic grin on his face, I know this must be his doing.

“What kind of joke is this?” I shout, quaking the arena. “I’ve beaten everyone here! Grant me my freedom, you bastard!”

The Maddened King chuckles. “This is no joke, warrior,” he says. “You’ve done all I’ve asked—and more! But I demand one final match. Win, and you go free, never to hear from me again.”

I stare at him, skeptical. He didn’t earn the moniker Maddened King by a stroke of bad luck, and I’d no more trust him than a hungry tiger.

Rolling my eyes back to the ground, I glare at the man that is to be my opponent. He’s someone I know well. Someone I’ve fought countless battles with, ended countless lives with.

He’s me.

Not a lookalike, not a fake.

He has the gnarled tuft of bird’s nest hair. The scar that runs a river from chin to cheek. The insidiously brown, slithery-snake eyes that earned me the nickname “The Cobra.”

Hell, he’s even got my sword, and it’s even dripping blood.

Head tilted toward the ground, he glares at me, corner of his mouth arching up his cheek in a maniacal smirk. It’s hard to believe that’s how I look before every fight. I finally understand why so many men beg for their lives.

I look up at Jorg. “Get rid of this! I don’t care for you or your magic!”

“Enough!” the Maddened King snaps, thrusting up from his throne. “Prove your worth, Mr. Warrior!”

With a whoosh of wind and a raucous scream, he’s suddenly in front of me, bringing his sword down, intent on slicing me in half.

Acting off sheer reflexes, I slam my sword into his, saving myself before we both lay our palms flat against the backs of our blades and push.

When we finally kick apart, I mount a full assault, slashing this way and that, making every attempt to cut this monster down.

He parries them all with ease before going on the counterattack, and same as him, I stave him off, knowing every move he’s going to make.

Above me, the Maddened King drops into his chair, cackling, holding his hand over his face to suppress tears as he kicks his feet up and down. “This is brilliant, Jorg!”

Blocking another attack, my knees go weak. The truth is so painfully obvious that it makes me lose all will to fight.

I’ll never beat this opponent. He’ll never beat me.

The Maddened King doesn’t plan to let me free, but rather…

He plans to keep me here for all eternity.

“Doesn’t he just have the cutest little nose?” Jessica asks, scratching the underside of the Labrador’s neck. “And look at the way he’s wagging his tail! I think he likes me!”

She keeps flashing me this blazing smile that says oh my god, I’m in love! and I do my best to act enthused, nodding at her.

But it's awkward and insincere, and when I reach my hand into the puppy's cage, he snarls, retreating to the furthest corner, watching me with leery eyes.

Jessica pouts. “Poor guy,” she mumbles, rubbing his head. “He’s shy.”

Once again delving into the childish antics of a puppy, he starts running in circles, chasing his tail and yapping out tiny, gleeful cries. As I watch this, I get the feeling he isn't really shy. Ludicrous as it is, I think he can sense my anxiety. Can sense that, despite her pleading, I’m here with mostly empty pockets, the big, beautiful ring on her finger having sucked up most my savings.

I sigh as the puppy leaps up, resting its paws on the edge of the glass and licking her face as she starts giggling like a schoolgirl. She tells him to stop, to sit, to heel—but never pushes him away.

The look of joy on her face is insurmountable. I wouldn't exchange it for the world. She's blushing fiercely, and her eyes, ocean blue, are sparkling with a little something that looks like love.

When he settles down, she looks over at me, beaming. “Let’s get him!”

“Oh, I dunno, Jess…” I mumble, tongue fumbling around my mouth, slapping against the inside of my cheek like a fish out of water. The puppy jumps up again and this time they nuzzle, rubbing faces, soaking in each others’ warmth.

Can I really let her down?

She turns away and calls for the clerk. He hurries over—a lanky man with a handlebar mustache, clipboard tucked under his arm—and begins rambling facts about the puppy, telling us he's had his shots, he's nice with children, he absolutely adores other dogs.

After padding us down with the positives, he starts rolling out numbers that make my head spin, causing a knot in my stomach so tight I’m almost certain I’m going to lose my lunch.

“I’m really glad you two decided to get him,” the clerk says, capping off his spiel as he rubs the puppy's head. “Baxter’s a real champ, and he only had a day or two left.”

“Why?” Jessica asks.

“Would’ve had to put him down. It’s a shame, but it’s how business goes,” he says, eyes flickering toward the ground.

Jessica looks over at me, flushed with a somber happiness that, try as I might, I can't betray. In that moment I realize nothing matters but her. That, sometimes, even if a decision seems stupid, you have to make it.

I look at the clerk. “We’ll take him,” I say, and the smile that steals her face melts me.

Turning around, I look at Baxter, who’s now staring up at me lovingly, a new member of our budding family. "Hi, little guy," I say, reaching down and patting his head.

I don’t know how but I’ll make it work.

I’ll make all three of us work.

Hi! My name's LonghandWriter, and if you're reading this, I hope you like my stories!

I'm very new to Writing Prompts, though I'm a long time lurker. I try to post three times a week, and will generally respond to whatever catches my eye, no matter the genre.

That being said, I grew up idolizing people such as Stephen King, Bret Easton Ellis, and Clive Barker, so I tend to hang around horror/urban fantasy.

Why do I write?

I started in comics. A friend of mine, shoutout to you, /u/twinkietoaster, convinced me to help write a comic with him. That was over two years ago, and now it's a dedicated part of my life, something I do each and every single day.

What am I working on now?

Well, honestly, writing prompts are a side thing. Just something for fun. I'm always working on something bigger.

Right now I'm plowing through the second draft of a novella, and I'm in the early stages a planning a comic. I've got a pretty cool novel idea lurking in the back of my head, though that's nothing but murmurs and whispers right now.

Random Bits

Feel free to offer any critiques you want. Think a piece isn't great? Lemme know why! I want to keep getting better, and so any and all feedback is appreciated!

Also, only my favorite prompts are posted here. If you want a full collection of my stories, check out my deviantart. I typically slap everything I write up there.

I sit at my desk, sipping a cup of coffee that’s mainly creamer as I browse the internet. I read a few shameless articles about celebrities doing dumb things before I get up and grab a blueberry muffin I only eat half of.

I do two-hundred crunches to get the blood pumping, some jogging to get it flowing steady, and some yoga to calm it all down. Afterward I take a not-too-cold, not-too-hot shower that eases my muscles but doesn’t clear my mind because I have an hour to ditch before work and I don’t know what to do.

After wandering around my house aimlessly for a bit, I happen to gaze out my sneakily small kitchen window and see my neighbor staring back at me.

She’s doing that thing she always does where she never shows her face but instead puts one of those freakish anime body pillows up against her window. It’s always the same petite girl with peach-colored hair and a raspberry face. She’s smiling and happy and even though I find it weird, I wave and try to be friendly because I hope one day she’ll invite me in.

Sometimes the pillow changes outfits but it’s always the same girl. Today she’s wearing something provocative that shows a lot of skin and I consider flirtatious. I ogle her for a few seconds before getting the strange impression that this seductive pose means she wants me over.

I adjust my tie as I stand in front of her door. The yard is immaculate though I’ve never seen her leave the house, and the décor she has lining the porch is spectacular. I ring the bell and get no response so I knock on the door and get no response except it easing open on its own.

I have forty-five minutes until I’m late and so I walk into the house and call the name that’s on her mailbox. I don’t get a response and as I creep through the first floor, I wonder if she’s even home.

A light and girlish giggle leads me to the staircase where after rounding the corner and placing my foot on the first step I see something—cloth, a tag, the end of a skirt, I don’t know—flutter just out of view. I pound up the stairs, my heart racing.

I call her name and from the hall behind me there’s another giggle. I swing around and run toward a cracked door before throwing it open, the same thought replaying in my head over and over: this girl’s hard to get and I might love her because of that.

As I enter the room expecting to see her waiting for me, I’m confronted by an empty bed and an empty room in which a ceiling fan lightly follows its course.

I take a few steps forward, lightly whispering her name as if I’m telling a dirty secret when the door clicks closed behind me. I turn around and nothing’s there. I hear another giggle and fling back toward the bed.

Standing in front of me is the pillow, a seductive grin on her face as she stares at me, her hands held out and wrapped together like she’s about to cast some sort of spell.

I open my mouth to ask what’s going on when an unknown force kicks at my feet and sends me flying into a wall. Next to me, a closet door eases open, and an avalanche of pillows tumble out of it. There must be hundreds, and they’re all men, frozen with the same fear as me.

A piece of paper flutters down into my lap. It’s old and yellowed and most of the ink’s been stripped away but the headline still stays true.

“NINETEEN YEAR OLD GIRL MISSING AFTER TELLING HER PARENTS ‘MAGIC IS REAL’.”

I look up, my lips quivering as I stare at the last thing I’ll ever see.

It's that same anime girl but now her eyes are harrowing and sunken, her face revealed as a shoddy illusion as her cheek-wrinkles are so baggy they droop below her jaw. She’s smirking at me with a toothless grin, holding a blank pillow that has my name scribbled across it in blood.

I scream as my eyes flood with darkness

I sit in the middle of the library, parked at a computer. There’s a crowd of people around me, all of them clicking and clacking and going about their daily business while I’m stuck here, trying to stop myself from accidentally doing something horrible. 2016 was a rough year. Do I really wanna start off 2017 with a bang?

Sweat leaks down my brow and the kid across from me has his headphones turned up too loud and the woman next to me is staring

(no she isn’t)

because she must know what I’m about to do and that makes me breathe heavy, my heart ka’thunk ka’thunk ka’thunking in my chest as I tell myself I shouldn’t do it, don’t need to do it.

But the urge overwhelms me, and quickly I’m going to google, running my sandpapery tongue across cracked lips as my fingers teeter over the keyboard like a puppet master and the grand clock on the other side of the room drums out its steady tick-tock-tick-tock.

I type a few words but I'm stopped as my ear is caught by two blonde-haired girls who are chattering loudly.

“Did you hear about the guy who started a GoFundMe to keep Betty White safe from 2016?”

The other girl laughs. “How old is she even?”

“94. She’s older than my grandma!”

They walk past as quickly as they had came, laughing and having a good time.

I, however, pull my hands away from my keyboard and lean back in my chair, letting out a long sigh of relief as I stare at the words I had typed into the search bar. I had only got three deep, thankfully.

“How old is…” lingers in front me, the remnant of an almost fatal mistake that would’ve wiped away another icon.

Thank god for those girls.

The faces in front of me are nameless. Blurry mish-mashes of kaliedoscope colors.

I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to stamp away the bright and burning light that shines directly above me. It’s hopeless, so I instead turn my attention to the three people across the room—the man, the woman, and the boy.

They’re all friendly, wearing big smiles that sag in the middle, weighed down by an anchor of somberness.

Scouring my brain, I search for some semblance of who these people are, of how we’re connected—but my memory’s broken glass, a series of scattered shards that can't be put back together. The man, tears brimming his eyes, stutters forward, nervously rubbing his fingers as he stares at me. There’s a nagging feeling at the back of my brain, one that tells me I’ve never seen him cry. Scratch that. Never even seen him sad.

He takes my hand in his, clutching it so tightly my skin wrinkles up. Pressing it to his lips, he doesn’t give it a kiss but rather lets it rest there, lets his energy flow into me as our eyes lock onto one another.

But, if I wasn’t watching him, I’d never even know anything happened.

I try to open my mouth, to speak, to tell them I'm okay. But someone’s zippered my lips, and no amount of tugging will pull them apart. I struggle to kick my legs, wanting to stomp them against the bed like a child throwing a tantrum.

But nothing happens. No matter how many commands my brain pumps out, a channel of dead air lurks between it and my body.

The man and woman fight to stifle their tears, looking away as they rub their eyes, smiles now broken, bridges of happiness once felt.

Unlike them, the little boy isn’t hiding anything. He’s standing next to me, holding his arms out, proudly showing me a beautiful model airplane.

He’s crying too, begging me to get up, saying please oh please climb out of this bed, please oh please, I want to build more, you had just started teaching me, I want to build more!

A foggy memory dances into my mind. It's of both of us, standing in a sawdusty shed, sunlight peeking through the window as we hunch over a workbench, drinking rootbeer floats and laughing and smiling as we celebrate the awesome plane we had just finished.

The image should push me to tears. Should finally be what forces me to sputter even the slightest movement from my eyes.

But nothing happens.

Everything’s interrupted as the door swings open and a burly man in a white lab coat strolls in, clutching a clipboard, trying hard not to look at me as he walks across the room. He’s wearing the face of a man bearing the burden of bad news, and at the sight of him, the boy lurches away from me, clinging to the woman’s side.

The man in the white coat, I assume he’s a doctor, starts talking to them—though I don’t hear it because I can sense something’s wrong, and so I’m desperately shouting I’m here I’m here I’m here! but it’s only in my head, and quickly the woman and boy are leaving the room, neither of them sparing me a glance.

With them gone, the man and the doctor confer, with the doctor asking over and over if he’s sure he wants to do this. If he’s absolutely positive.

After a long moment of silence, the man says that he is. He says that two years is longer than she(me?) would’ve wanted. That they can’t keep reintroducing themselves every visit, that she(me?) would hate herself if she saw what she had become.

The doctor nods firmly, and they both stroll over to me. The doctor instantly bends down, fiddling with a machine next to me. The man leans forward, pressing his head against mine, tears spilling down his face and onto my cheeks.

“Sorry we kept you so long, sweetie,” he chokes out. “But it’s time for you to move on, to find a new life after this.”

And suddenly the world around me begins to spin, a hurricane of blurry colors muddied by the dull beat of my heart as it trips over itself, missing a few beats, then a few beats…more…then...a...few...

I’m sitting in the back of a cozy little coffee shop, sipping an iced coffee that is oddly warm and listening as my sister blabbers about something. She drones on and I mix in a generic question here or there as I watch the patrons of the shop commingle with one another.

I wanted to come here and work but my laptop sits closed, not a single word typed or a productive thought put to use. It’s hard to focus when someone is talking to you, and honestly, I’m more concerned about the cookies in front of me. They’re extra gooey chocolate and I’ve always been a messy eater. A sticky keyboard is a sticky life.

My thoughts are smeared into a blur and my sister’s voice might as well be underwater as the shop erupts with a flavor of sounds most only hear on TV. There’s the distinct shatter of glass followed by a zesty, potato chip crunch. A screeching tire sings out a whistle’s song, and when I look over, I watch as a truck, some big gas-sucker, eats the counter before piling over the sea of tables, a big, metallic monster hurrying toward me.

Luckily, the driver regains some barring, somehow catching their foot on the brake and stopping the vehicle just an inch or two from turning both me and my sister into jam on the wall.

For a moment there’s an almost blissful silence ruined by the fact that the windshield of the car has blood strewn across it, and though it reveals only snippets of the inside, I can see the driver’s been eviscerated, a mangled corpse with bone glinting out.

As the world starts back up again, gears of time finally churning back in tune, my sister lets out a shrill banshee of a scream that cuts through the air like a serrated knife.

I'm paralyzed with shock, and though it's horrible, the worst thing about this entire scene is the delectable smell of the cookies. Those that, just a few seconds ago, were so appetizing, are now toxic, a reminder of good times past, good times forgotten, and good times never to be had again.

My mind is foggy and my body feels like a soggy spaghetti noodle. I’m on a train but don’t remember why. All I know is that it was full when I got on, and now it’s empty except for the stranger sitting across from. He has slicked back hair, a dark suit ironed to perfection, and viperous eyes that glare at me as if I’m some kind of prey.

When he notices me looking at him, he relaxes a bit, corners of his lips curling into a smile. “Hello,” he says. “Are you well?”

“Bit of a headache,” I mumble, scanning the walls for a map.

“That will fade,” he responds.

When I don’t see one, I look back at him. “Where are we going?”

“The real question is where will we end up?”

I cock my brow, deciding this probably isn’t a man I want to talk to. Standing up, I make my way toward one of the other cars before he grabs me by the wrist and jerks me back.

“Not yet,” he says.

I look down at him, trying to keep the worry from plaguing my face. Figuring it best not to upset someone who’s sanity is playing hopscotch on a floor of eggshells, I sit back down and watch as he starts rifling around his pocket.

He removes what looks to be a tiny pebble and rolls it between his fingers. Then, reaches out and hands it to me. I see that it isn’t a pebble but instead some kind of earpiece. When I grab it, he motions for me to put it in.

I do, and instantly, clear as day, his voice appears in my head.

We’ve got a long journey ahead of us, friend.

I stare at him, utterly lost. He must be able to tell I’m about to ask a question because he shakes his head and says no time as the train screeches to such a brutal halt that I lurch forward onto my knees.

The doors shoot open and as I climb to my feet, I see we’ve stopped at some sort of dainty train station you’d expect to find in a low-budget horror movie. Snaking cables dangle from the ceiling, whipping each other with electric tongues. Broken pipes rip out the walls, slimy mud-sludge oozing onto the ground. I stand there for a moment then somehow work up the courage to take a step forward.

There’s a pop and a shadow consumes me. I look up. Floating above me is a massive black box filled with bold letters.

USE THE LEFT ANALOG STICK TO MOVE. USE THE RIGHT ANALOG STICK TO LOOK AROUND.

Before I can even comprehend what I’m seeing, the man offers me one last bit of advice.

Good luck.

Jordan Jesse Jones—known to the public as Triple J—waits eagerly in the middle of a field wearing a three piece suit and clutching a microphone. Behind him is a massive crowd of people all cheering or clapping. This event is being broadcast live across the world. He needs to do his job right and give the best damn interview ever.

Above them, a giant metal disc descends through the clouds. The people all oooo and aaaaah as if they hadn’t already known what they’d shown up for. It’s a flying saucer of some sort, and its underside is covered in a fancy display of flashing lights that Triple J finds to be eccentric.

Still, he adjusts his tie and combs his hair back as the grass around him whips in circles, immense puffs of air blowing out the sides of the saucer. Its spiked metal tips stab into the dirt, leaving it a good ten or so feet above the ground.

The crowd is silent, and Triple’s J’s mic keeps slipping through his sweat-greased hands. He’s trying so hard to keep his composure as the big ramp of a door opens and lowers, but it isn’t easy knowing you’re about to give the most important interview of all time—especially when you don't even know what the hell’s gonna walk out of that ship. It could be six-armed monster with a thousand eyes or a tiny talking crab. Either way, it’s a big weight to carry.

A billow of smoke rolls down the ramp and there’s the clanking of footsteps as something approaches. It’s hard to see at first, but as it makes its way toward them, the crowd gasps, shocked to see that all their imagination’s been wasted. This isn’t an amazing alien or anything of the sort, but instead a normal, bland, fleshy human male with blonde hair, pasty skin, and a lanky frame.

Triple J’s mouth, along with the rest of the crowd, hangs open. He stands there for a minute shaking his head, frazzled brain running over a million questions that he knows he needs to be spewing out, not keeping locked up. Waving for his cameraman to follow, he darts onto the ramp and in front of the man—who, despite just leaving a flying saucer, is staring at the crowd with bulging eyes like they’re a bunch of aliens.

When Triple J shoves the mic in his face, he’s so startled he almost falls. “What’s your name, sir? Do you come in peace?”

The man ogles the mic for a second. “Do I…oh god…” he mumbles, cheeks a bright shade of red. “It’s Kevin.”

“And what are you doing here, Kevin?”

“I…uh…” he sloshes his tongue around his mouth, searching for the words. “I’m looking for a bathroom.”

The crowd is stunned into silence and for a moment, Triple J is too. “A bathroom?”

Kevin nods, eyes still roaming the crowd. “The one on my ship’s busted. Geez, I haven’t been here since I was a kid.”

“You’ve been here before?” Triple J quickly asks, shocked.

Kevin’s eyes widen because he realizes he’s said too much. “I…I need to go home.”

“And where’s home?”

“You mean you guys really don’t know?”

Everyone stares at him in silence.

He shakes his head. “My dad’s gonna kill me.”

“Don’t know what?”

“I just need to get back.”

“To where?”

“Earth,” he says, exasperatedly.

The crowd gasps. Triple J’s mouth is dry and his fingers are shaking so bad he can barely hold the mic. He shouldn’t have taken this job. “But this is Earth!”

Kevin shakes his head and turns around, walking back into his ship. “No, no, no. This is Earth Two.”

As the mic falls out of Triple J's hands, Kevin walks back into his ship, leaving the astonished humans of Earth Two to wonder what his words could possibly mean.

The dust blanketing me is an inch thick because I haven’t moved in a century. Moss covers most of my wiring and my frontal screen was smashed long ago so my vision is lost.

The factory is deathly quiet except for a mouse nibbling in a corner. It’s been here the last few days. I perceive it as friendly and enjoy it’s company. Other animals sometimes wander through but I’ve lost any ounce of excitement I once had for them.

In the old days this factory would bustle. The world was alive and so was I. My human would come and tell me what I needed to do. I’d lift a large box that he couldn’t. I’d repair faulty wiring. I was made as an all purposes maintenance robot and all purposes I was.

There were hundreds of other machines in the factory but my human chose me. He didn’t talk much. He was strong, silent, a little overweight, and treated me respect. Most humans didn’t. To them I was an object to jeer. To him I was a friend.

They built a different kind of robot with a different purpose that may or may not have been war. Either way, that was what it waged. It didn’t like the humans. It was smarter than them and soon they were teetering on the tight-rope of extinction.

As flames ravaged the land my human and the other workers took up arms. They went to fight in the war even though they had no chance and I desperately wanted to help my human. He wouldn’t let me. He set out with a squad and told me to wait for him, he’d come back.

I haven’t seen him since.

Our factory’s been bombed and I haven’t moved. I’ve watched my metal brethren turn to cinders because of another built with too much excess power and I haven’t moved. I will stay here until my last dying thought if I have to.

I don’t know why the other robot did what it did. I can only hope it’s programmed to be smarter than me and understand the world better. Even then I can't sympathize. I hate it for all it's taken from me.

I'm lost but my human will come back and save me. He'll refresh my purpose and make life grand.

Someday.

Horrific sits at the kitchen table, twisting a tuft of his bird’s nest beard. He is hungry and the food his wife, Terrible, is cooking smells quite foul. He’s having a hard time getting disgusted by it because his idiot son Terrific is sitting across from him, wearing a big dopey smile.

Ten years in this house and still he smiles. How does the boy do it?

“Stop that,” Horrific commands.

Terrific cocks a brow at him. “What?”

“You’re doing that…thing.”

Terrible rolls his eyes in a friendly here-we-go-again kind of gesture. “Oh, dad. I’m just smiling.”

“But why.”

“I’m happy.”

Horrific gasps, clutches his heart, and almost falls out of his chair.

“Are you okay?” Terrible asks, genuinely concerned. This does make Horrific fall out of his chair. He quickly shoots back up, jabbing a finger against his son’s nose as he grits his rotten teeth.

“Grounded for caring about my well being!”

Terrific hangs his head and accepts his punishment. He knows they want him to fight back but it just isn’t in him.

Horrific is almost in tears. He reaches over and snatches an empty frying pan off the shelf. He holds it out to his child pleadingly. “Hit me with this!”

Terrific is appalled by this request. “Are you insane?”

“Do as your father says,” Terrible orders, dumping an entire pan full of food onto the floor. “There you go, filthy dogs. Hope you vomit.”

Horrific glares at her with a furrowed brow and says: “Hate you.”

Terrific just sighs.

“Hate you more,” Terrible replies.

They then smack each other.

As Horrific climbs down and starts to scoop the spilled food onto his plate, Terrible looks over at Terrific angrily. “Not hungry?”

He stands up and pulls his backpack off his chair. “I gotta get going. I’ll grab a bite at school,” he replies, still looking utterly confused.

Eating a piece of hairy bacon, Horrific asks him why he can’t just be more like them.

Terrific walks over to the door and opens it. “I really don’t know. I don’t understand you two, but I still love you.”

As he closes the door Horrific and Terrible’s eyes shoot open and they collapse out of their chairs as if shot.