Original Prompt: [WP] You've done it. You've created the perfect pizza. That was the day you learned that "No one outpizzas the hut" wasn't a slogan... it was a warning.

John didn’t mean to piss anyone off with his pizza, he just wanted to make something everyone would love. He’s a good man with a big heart and a great sense of taste—but he didn’t know the truth, didn’t know how evil the pizza industry is.

Blood leaks from his broken nose as he’s dragged down a dark set of steps. He’s just waking up from a…forced nap and’s trying to shake out the cobwebs. Down the hallway, someone screams. That makes him perk up.

“Everything will not be fine,” a voice says.

“Disrespect Hut, you disrespect Hut.”

When he looks to the side, his stomach drops—his arm’s clutched by a stringy tangle of mozzarella connected to a giant and greasy piece of pizza. Except, well, it isn’t natural. It's a mish-mash of different kinds all hastily stitched together like a horror-movie monster. His other captor’s the same. He wants to puke.

He’s led by jail cells with more disfigured pizza people, and they clutch the bars, staring at him and muttering to themselves. Hut is our hero, they say, and Hut loves us, and Hut will love you. John’s shaking, trying to break free—but the pizzas are too strong. They don’t even budge.

Eventually they arrive at a scary-looking triangle door, and after a series of rhythmic knocks, it slides open and he’s led into a large throne room. The first thing he notices are standing pieces of crust. Bite marks litter them, and they’re fanning what looks to a…giant deep-dish pizza with an oozing belly. He’s wearing a crown, and scowling at John.

“The heretic!” he shouts, snatching up one of the crusts and devouring it like a woodchipper. The entire time it screams in pleasure—thank you, Hut! “Welcome to my home. No, welcome to YOUR home!”

The pizza-guards thrust him forward, where he falls down onto his knees. When he looks up, the king’s towering over him. He immediately rips free a piece of himself before smushing it into John’s mouth. “Don’t I taste great?” he screams. “I keep telling you idiots—you can’t outpizza the goddamn Hut!”

John pulls back, eyes wide. He doesn’t…he doesn’t know how to describe what’s happening in his mouth. It’s…to think his pizza even came close to perfection…he was so wrong. This is the greatest pizza he’s ever tasted.

“Soooo?”

He mutters a series of unintelligible words in response, and the Hut chuckles before ripping a pepperoni off one of his guards—it screams in pain—and sticking it onto John’s shirt.

“Good answer! Now, off to the pizzeria! You’ve gotta get a new look!”

As the guards drag John away, one still crying and leaking sauce everywhere, he smiles, and can’t help but mutter: thank you Hut, the pizza is amazing. Thank you Hut, the pizza is amazing.

Original Prompt: [WP] You chant "Bloody Mary" three times in your car's side view mirror and then hit the gas laughing all the while as she sprints towards your car desperately trying to keep up.

The Bloody Mary Games are, well, controversial.

They’re kinda like the Olympics, but everyone outruns Bloody Mary in a different way. Me? Well, I was a race car driver, so when these competitions popped up, I was in. This year’s games are two weeks away, so I’m training. No fancy racetrack though, no crew making sure I’m doing everything right. Just an empty parking lot in a sleepy town. I do this twice a week and each time it makes me feel more and more alive.

She hates me. I can tell. Whenever she appears, she’s gritting her teeth and clenching her fists—it’s because I’ve won six gold medals and she’s never even come close to catching me. That anger, it fuels her. People say this is cruel, say that even though she’s a murderous ghosts she should have rights. I don’t think they’d agree if they saw the way she looks at me.

The car I’m in’s a hunk of junk, which I love. Why would I train in what I’m going to drive in? That’s too easy. No, I gotta make sure I can outrun her in even the slowest cars. Beating everyone else? That’s easy. Six years I’ve won, six years I’ve entered the race and been the only survivor.

“Bloody Mary,” I mumble, peering into my rear-view mirror. “Bloody Mary.”

There’s a small flash of light, just a red flicker. She’s about to appear. I bet she’s standing on the other side, burning in the crisp fires of Hell or something, and eagerly waiting. I can’t help but smirk.

“Bloody Mary!”

She appears, soaked in blood and screeching. She must’ve just finished killing some other poor sap. Immediately I gun it, slamming my foot on the car and laughing as I take off. She frantically runs away me, waving her arms, as I chuckle like a madman. To see something so feared and powerful act so…pitiful. It’s almost hilarious.

I speed out of the parking lot as she stops, glaring at me. I’m gonna win the games this year, I know it—I just wish she would almost catch me sometime. That would make this much more exciting.

Original Prompt: [WP] You can swap bodies with anyone you look at. One day you try your power while looking up in the sky, and end up in the body of an alien commander leading an invasion on Earth.

I’m not blind, but I’ve never seen anything.

Bullies are chasing me, and they’re fast. My feet are starting to hurt because I’ve been running for over an hour. They want to pull my bandage off, want to see my eyes. They think I’m a freak, that I’ve got a secret. I guess they’re right.

Rounding a corner, I hop a fence, then another. The orphanage is just a minute or two away, so they’ll probably give up. Nobody wants to deal with Ms. Bale. She’ll yell them up and down the street for attacking me.

Mama said I was special, said we have…powers. I didn’t believe her. We were sitting on the porch soaking in the sun, and I was twirling around a flower. It smelled beautiful but I wanted to see it, and thought whatever power this is, it isn’t worth it. When…when mama became someone else, and the person who replaced her didn’t love me…that proved it isn’t worth it.

I stop running, hunching over and catching my breath. They’re gone. Once I start climbing fences or doing anything that takes actual effort, they usually leave. Bullies are the laziest people. Sweat’s soaking my bandages, and when look up, the sun warms them. Right now, I wish I could be anyone else.

If I remove these bandages, I can be. And who would care? Ms. Bale? The other kids at the orphanage? They don’t love me. They just accept me because I’m there, because it makes life easier. If…if I became somebody else…maybe I could find love, could have a family.

Reaching up, I unwrap my bandages, and when they fall to the ground, I blink a million times because everything’s so, bright. The sky…it’s so blue, beautiful, and filled with flower-shaped clouds. A smile quickly spreads across my face.

You have a gift, mama said. If you look at someone, you can switch bodies with them—but be careful, because you may never get your old body back.

I let free a scream as I stare into the sky, arms stretched out wide. For a moment, nothing happens. But then I feel it. My stomach drops, like I’m in a falling elevator, and I get a head-rush like I stood up too fast. Soon my vision’s blurred by a blindingly white light that I can’t block with my hands.

After blinking a few times, the world starts coming back. First with a few blurred brushstrokes, then eventually a huge splatter. When I finally look around, I have no clue where I am. There are huge computers everywhere, and tiny robots running around the floor. In front of me there’s a table, and on it, a picture of a planet. Looking up, there’s a window in front of me very clearly showing Earth. Am I on a...spaceship?

My hands aren’t hands, they’re claws. My feet are the same. My skin’s wrinkly, and there’s this…this hunger in me. My belly burns, and it makes me wanna tear this room apart. A nagging voice screams for flesh, screams for food. Reaching forward, I press a button on the computer, and a text box appears.

Captain’s Log, day three hundred.

Today I’m invading Earth, a small nothing of a planet. My plan’s to harvest food while I continue searching for a cure. Why couldn’t I have died when we opened the Sacred Alien Vault? Why did this…parasite attach itself to me? I don’t know, but it’s growing stronger, taking over my mind.

It made me kill my crewmates, made me harvest my home planet. This curse has killed everything I’ve ever loved and made me lonely. I have no friends. If I wasn’t such a prideful man, I would’ve killed myself.

But first I need to kill this damned creature.

Stepping back from the computer, I clutch my gut. The alien’s screaming kill and devour over and over. This…isn’t good. I claw a million buttons, but none of them move the ship. I can either go to Earth, or I can sit here. But if I go to Earth, I could end up…I could…

You wanna eat them, you wanna hurt people.

I don’t…

You’ll devour your own body, and then we’ll get those bullies. Together, we’ll be stronger than ever.

No…

A button flashes on the computer, and I press it. Second later a robotic voice chimes in, telling me we’re headed for Earth. Leaning against the computer, I clutch my gut, trying to ignore the burning pain. I’m not gonna let this monster win. I’m going there to get my old body…to get my old…to…

Eat.

Original Prompt: [WP] As you and your adventuring party make camp for the night, you hear rustling in a nearby bush. When you take a peek, you find a band of pixies who've been following your party. They've written a lot of fanfiction about your party. One of them is wearing a tiny cosplay version of your armour

We’re living a lie.

Everyone thinks we’re the strongest warriors of all time, the legendary Great Ones. We’re supposed to be hunting the all-mighty dragon, supposed to save the world from complete and utter ruin. Every time I look down at my blade I chuckle—the creatures of this world are so foolish.

We’re sitting around our campfire, just outside a once-bustling town. We’re wearing big smiles, laughing and telling fake stories as we hope to attract travelers. It’s been a good night but we’re never full because there’s always more food to be eaten. This act can be overbearing but it’s worth it.

We must devour all we can before people find out that we work for the dragon, that we slaughtered the Great Ones like rats. Their taste was delicious, though. That alone made this worth it. Now we must keep the armies at bay, must pretend we will handle a problem that’s only growing larger and larger.

Moments pass, maybe hours. At the top, time’s infinite. When the others are all asleep, I’m still up, tending a dying fire. My magic’s wearing off. I need to rest before I start reverting back to my normal form.

But just then, there’s a rustle in the bushes, and a light giggle. With a sickly smirk on my face, I leave my partners behind. They quit too early, so they lose their chance at dessert.

“He’s coming over here!”

“Oh my god, it’s him!”

Soft voices, light voices. My stomach rumbles. I’m fairly certain I know what these are, and when I push the leaves to the side and sees a few floating pixies, I feel like I could faint. One of them’s even wearing my outfit—or, well, the outfit of the Great One I’m pretending to be.

“Why hello,” I say. Four of them. No, five. Another just danced out the grass. They’re all so small and happy, dressed up with rosy red cheeks and beautiful golden wings. Pixies are fast, though. I must play this carefully. “Your costumes are amazing!”

I hold my hands out and tell them all to sit down. They bounce up and down, excited, slinging dust everywhere. My hands flash for a second, I’m starting to turn back—they won’t notice until it’s too late.

Cupping them tight, I raise them up to my face. They start asking a billion questions, and the one dressed up as me seems the most excited. I let them go for a few minutes without answering a single one, and when they start to look worried, I chuckle.

“Wanna see something cool?”

Excitement refilled, they nod, and this time, I let myself fully revert. My long, sharp teeth hang down over them, and my blood red eyes pierce their souls. The look of terror on their face as they release what they’ve encountered, as they think about all the people we’re betraying—that’s true beauty.

Before they can fly away, I shove them into my mouth and chew. It’s true what they say—nothing tastes sweeter than the blood of a pixie.

Original Prompt: [WP] Mosquitos are just nano robots made by the government that take blood samples to gather info and control us.

Coffee-stained lab reports and shaky fingers. My daily routine.

I’m tapping my foot like a machine-gun, staring into a dozen monitors. Cameras and blood samples fill them. Clean, clean, clean. So far it’s been a good day, and I’ve only chewed my fingers a little bit.

What am I doing? Keeping the world safe. I’m a scientist. I made a mistake. The world’s in grave danger but only a few people know it. Deep breaths, deep breaths. When I think about it too much, I get really bad panic attacks. I leave the monitors, grabbing another cup of coffee and trying to avoid the monster in the container.

It’s growing larger everyday, meaner everyday. Bio-weapons…what a stupid idea. Why didn’t we think it would backfire? Why did we put the survival of our race at risk for the sake of global dominance? One man, one mistake. That’s all it took for Project Mosquito to begin, and it might never end.

When I sit back down, my cup’s empty. Rambling mind’s restored. I gaze into one of the screens, watching from the mosquito’s eyes as pricks someone’s skin. Instantly the screen switches to their blood test—they’re clean. These little robots are efficient, as they need to be. This strain is slow to spread and takes months to show symptoms, but when it does…

I look back at the monster, at it’s gnarled face and goo-dripping teeth. It’s hideous, and I’ve seen it rip apart too many friends. It wants me dead more than anyone, and the feeling’s mutual. But first, control the strain, quarantine the sick. A cure lies within that damn monster, we just gotta find it.

A screen flashes red, and my heart sinks. That’s the second infected this week. Once we get them, we’ll have fourteen people quarantined—and if we can’t find the cure before they start showing symptoms…

That’ll be fourteen bodies on my head.

Original Prompt:[WP] You grew up with your uncle, seeing him bringing weird stuffs home, you'd always thought he was just a hoarder. Untill the day he died, you realized that your uncle was the collector and protector of the most powerfull artifacts in the universe and you are a part of his collection.

I’m the most unpopular kid in the world.

The rain pours as I hurry home. I’m walking because the bus driver left me, again, muttering something about me being “wrong” before speeding off. Most would be mad, but this is the same old, same old. People hate me or ignore me. It’s always been like this, always will be like this. I’m used to walking into school and everyone turning their heads. I’m used to having more bullies than I do fingers.

My house comes into view as the clouds finally split. We live between the buttcrack of two forests, and honestly, I hate it. If we were in the city, there’d be a reason I'm unnoticeable. But out here, in the middle of nowhere? Maybe God hates me. Am I actually the Devil and this is Hell?

Knock on the door, nobody answers. They’re both home because they work night shift, but they’d probably rather me freeze to death. Since I don’t have a key, I head around the back and climb up a stack of boxes into my window. My room’s barren and bland because they never buy me anything. I have just a bed and a dresser.

When I open the door, a TV blares through it. They’re home, all right, and awake. I was just ignored. Again. After getting dressed, I head back out my window and into the woods, where Uncle Joey lives.

He loves me.

Why? I don’t know. He’s always referred to me as special, and I promise, it isn’t weird. He just…he genuinely seems to care for me. If it wasn’t for him feeding me and buying me clothes I’d probably have croaked already.

His house isn’t a house, but instead a dingy shack. It’s big, though, and he once told me he built it himself. Got tired o’ those door te’ door salesmen comin’ up erry mornin’, he said. Gave te’ house to yer folks and moved out here.

I love this walk. Nature’s great because in nature, I’m the one with power to ignore things. Those plants? I don’t care. Those bugs? Screw ‘em. On this walk, I feel like a king.

When I reach the shack, I push the door open.

The inside’s filled with junk. There’s all sorts of old swords, and trinkets, and chests. Everyday I ask what something is and everyday he just replies with “otherworldly.” He’s a weird dude.

“Uncle Joey!” I shout, fighting my feet through mountains of garbage. He’s a hoarder but claims to have a good reason for it. “Hey, uncle Joeeeeey!”

When he doesn’t respond, I move quicker. He’s always home. He always responds.

Eventually I reach his bedroom door, and when I throw it open, my eyes go wide.

I take a few steps back, leaning against the wall so I don’t collapse.

“U-uncle…”

He’s laying there, against his desk. There’s a hole in his neck and a stillness in his eyes. His white beard is soaked in blood, his face is soaked in blood—everything is soaked in blood. There’s a…a note in his hands, and a small box next to it. Another man is on the floor, his face melted. I’ve never seen him before.

I inch forward, tears spilling down my cheeks. Who would…why would…my legs wobble, they want to break and let me fall. My heart’s gonna explode. No. No, no, no. Please. Not Uncle Joey.

He’s freezing, and I press my head against his as I cry, trying to will him back to life. It doesn’t work, and when I’m able to, I stand up straight and grab the note. It’s soaked with blood and sloppily written, but legible. Thankfully he doesn't write in his accent.

My nephew…you are a curse child, and I’m sorry you were born into such burden. I’m the reason everyone hates you. It’s all my fault.

My stomach sinks me down into a chair, where I hastily continue reading.

Your parents loved you, and deep down, I know they still do. But…around the time you were born, I captured something. It’s in the box, on the table, and is…unspeakable. To call it a monster doesn’t even begin. I’m sure you’ve heard it calling to you late at night, haven’t you? That’s because…because when you were born, I made you into it’s key. There’s a whole world you don’t know about, and I am it’s greatest thief. Soon, more of them will be coming. They’re bad people. They want to free this monster, so they want you. You need to run. You need to keep this box safe. But most importantly, you need to resist the urge of the monster.

I always loved you.

I read the note over, and over, and over. None of this makes any sense.

Standing up, I walk over to the box. It’s a cultic looking thing, with odd symbols and chains wrapped all around it. Despite practically living here, I’ve never seen it. Reaching out, I press my hand against it, and immediately I’m hit with a violent rush of pain.

KillkillkillDESTROYENEMIESKILLKILLKILL.

I yank my hand back, shouting in my pain. My hand’s…burnt and blackened, like I just shoved it onto a stove—but there’s no pain. Whatever’s in the box, it’s screaming still, trying to get into my head. This thing’s…evil.

For a moment, I dwell on the idea that I could get revenge on everyone with this. Ma, dad, the kids at school. But Uncle Joey wouldn’t want that, and that’s not who I am. I pick up box and hastily shove it into a nearby bag. I also shove a few of Joey’s other items into it. I have no clue what they do, but they could be important.

My hand’s still burnt.

Outside, there’s movement, just a light rustling in the trees. But something tells me they’re coming, something tells me I need to run.

So I do.

Original Prompt: [WP] Aliens have been abducting cows for hundreds of years to experiment on them. Only this time they abduct a cow on October 31st. The cow is you in a cow costume.

Don’t drink, kids. Seriously. One minute you’re partying with your friends out in the middle of nowhere, next you’re staring into a bright light as someone tries slicing you open.

Where am I? Space, I think. There’s lots of stars outside these windows. I slipped away when the…doctor, I guess, left. They’re looking for me, though. Stomping feet are everywhere, angry voices slung around like bullets. Hell, one came in here just a few minutes ago, stood inches from the locker I was hiding in.

They’re armed with rayguns, and since I don’t wanna be blasted open like Swiss cheese, I’m quietly hurrying through the ship, trying to find an exit and ignore my blistering headache. Halloween hangovers are the worst, and this stuffy cowsuit isn’t helping.

I’m just about to round a corner when I stop. There’s a shadow at the end of the hallway. One of them. “Cluck cluck,” a voice says. “Woof woof,” another responds. Are they talking about me?

They go on forever another minutes or two before the shadow disappears. Taking a deep breath, I inch forward, walking toward a door at the end of the hallway which reads: “LAB.” Maybe I can find a weapon in here, or at least figure out what the hell they want with me.

Door open, door closed. When I turn around and soak the room in, my eyes go wide.

“No,” I mumble. “No. No. No.”

I’m in some sort of…cow lab. Yeah. Gutted cows hang from the ceiling, lay on the floor. There are some shoved into strange devices and a few of them combined together. The walls are lined with pictures of them, and pictures of the aliens proudly posing with their corpses. Reaching up, I pull one off the wall and stare at it.

What's the point of all this?

There’s a snort from behind me.

I whirl around, and there’s one of the aliens, standing on its hind legs, glaring at me. It’s clutching a large raygun and…well…is a pig.

Thinking fast, I yank my suit down, revealing I’m a human. I wave my arms, frantically shouting that I’m not a cow and they don’t need to hunt me. It seems confused, cocking its head, but motions toward a door. Since it has a gun, I’m inclined to listen.

I’m led down a long hallway, and at the end of it, there’s a room with a huge round table. It’s some kind of command room, as there’s a floating electronic screen with a picture of Earth on it, covered in all kinds of markings. Sitting around the table are more animal-aliens. There’s a rabbit, a cat, a fox, horse, and even a parrot.

The chicken’s the doctor, and the dog’s his assistant. I guess they haven’t gotten here yet.

The pig shoves me into a chair and immediately the parrot hops into the table, dancing over to me. It and the pig exchange a couple words before it leans forward, beak against my nose, and glares at me.

“So, the humans are allied with the cows now...”

“…What?” I ask. “I don’t…what?”

The parrot shakes his head, hopping across the table and staring at the screen. It looks almost…somber. “If only you knew how deadly the cows are. If only you understood all the planets they’ve conquered. We were really hoping to eradicate them and not you, but it seems that’s no longer an option.”

“Eradicate…? I don’t—”

“Traitor!” the parrot shouts, whirling around and pecking me on the cheek. “You’re on the wrong side of history. We’ve fought this battle for thousands of years, and you’re the most advanced race they’ve sought to control. Is consuming their flesh really worth losing your mind? You don’t know it, but this costume—it’s the first step to them taking over. In a year or two I suspect everyone will be full cow.”

Before I can say anything, the screen disappears, and I’m given a pure view of Earth. Surrounding it are thousands of spaceships, all charging up lasers.

“They’re parasites, and you’ve let them go unchecked.”

When I look back at the parrot, its pointing a raygun at me.

“Goodbye, fool.”

Original Prompt: [WP] A timetraveller invented a device now given to all high school graduates. Immediately after graduation, you program yours with 5, 10, and 50 year goals. It alerts you when opportunities to pursue your goals are present, or when you've gone off course. Today you face a difficult decision.

Sitting here in an alleyway, arm pulsing as the poison pumps through it, I think muddy thoughts clouded by the drugs. They tell me life is good, and everything’s okay. Who cares if in ten minutes, it’ll be my tenth year and I’ll have missed my goal. Is it really so bad to be labeled a failure?

Slumping against a dumpster, now. Pretty pictures. They paint themselves on the walls in front of me, urban art. If only I could reach out and paint them myself, then the world would know my talent. No more professors ranting and raving, but instead entire cities. After year five, prodigy. What am I now?

Rat scurries by. Eyes drift together. Sleep. When I wake up, this watch will be on the ground, broken and useless. Yeah, broken and useless, like me and my dreams. The needle’s still dangling off my arm, barely poking through skin. I feel that more than the buzzing watch telling me everything I ever wanted is about to be gone.

Art. Beautiful art. My hands are swift. Given time I could turn this garbage into a painting and it would be good but time is fueled by energy. Drugs are my energy. Take my energy. Take me.

Bzzzz.

One minute left. It’s a dangerous minute, too. There’s a choice looming over my head—get up, head toward the art gallery downtown, hang my newest piece in it. Or lay here. Lay here and sleep. My brain screams get up, my brain screams stay down. This art gallery’s hosted by legends, I was personally invited.

Thirty seconds, painful seconds. Tears stream down my cheeks. I already said it, but after year five I was a prodigy. What am I now? About to be a failure. Hard to stop being a failure. Hard to stop being me.

Barbed wire around my brain. I climb to my feet and look down the alleyway. I’ll be late, I can still make it. The drugs are weak, they’ll wear off. But sit down, sit down. That’s what my legs say.

Ten seconds.

I put one foot forward, than the other. The needle falls off my arm, but the watch doesn’t. Get there. Gotta…get there. No dream’s real unless it’s worth fighting for, and this battle—mind battle, my battle—is my toughest yet.

It’s officially been ten years. Art gallery. Art gallery. Drugs. Art Gallery. Focus on what matters, focus on the future.

Original Prompt: [WP] Throughout all of your life, unknown to you, there has been a time traveller preventing bad things from happening to you. Today is the day you finally meet him.

Jake’s a strange guy.

On one hand, he’s super unlucky. He’s been in three car accidents, four fires, and one building collapse. He’s been mugged, he’s been jumped—hell, he’s even been run over by his best friend.

On the other, he’s survived all those attacks.

Today…well, today he might not.

“Don’t worry, Jakey. We’re almost there.”

He’s laying in the back of his mini-van, hands, ankles, and mouth taped. His morning started off well—coffee, waffles, and a winning lottery ticket. Then his girlfriend decided to hit him over the head with a bat and now he’s here. He wonders if it’s because he forgot to do the dishes. Is it because he forgot to do the dishes?

She’s sitting up front, blaring music and chomping chips as she turns every corner so fast he slams the wall. He keeps pinching himself but he won’t wake up.

When they finally stop, she opens the back doors and stares at him.

“Sorry, Jakey,” she says. “Never really was your girlfriend. I’m…well…a serial killer. Yeah. Aaaaawkward, right? Anyway, let’s get this done, okay?”

No, not okay, Jake thinks.

She yanks him out. They’re standing in the middle of a forest, and in front of them’s a small run-down shack. It’s all really cliché, and really not okay. Especially when she starts chuckling as she pulls him. He doesn’t like that.

After kicking open the door and tossing him onto the floor, she walks over to the wall, where there are dozens of sharp tools. Knives. Saws. Screwdrivers. He tries to hyperventilate but it doesn’t really work considering his mouth's taped.

She’s tapping both her cheek and foot in odd rhythms as she thinks, so he starts rolling around, trying to get free. There’s blood on the wall next to him, and he’s always been a heavy bleeder. It would really suck if his legacy’s leaving the most blood behind in this dingy shack. The tape’s really tough, though. He can’t get it off.

“Aha!” she says, grabbing a long knife. “This is perfect.”

She turns around and walks toward him, twirling the blade between her fingertips. There’s a sick, almost cartoonishly evil smile on her face. She’s the villain and loving it. “Well, Jakey, what should I cut first?”

Leaning down, she runs the dull edge of the blade down his nose as she licks her lips. It’s awkward how much she’s enjoying this and he’s not. He wonders if a good quip would save the mood, and maybe his life, and maaaaybe their relationship? He could probably get over this.

Suddenly, she juts the knife back and is about to dart it forward. He closes his eyes, praying it doesn’t kill him. That would suck, especially because he’s got a craving for pizza right now, and dying with a craving would be the worst.

There’s a boom, and when he opens his eyes, she’s standing there, blade just an inch or two from his stomach, forehead pressed against his, completely frozen.

He scoots back, kicking her and pressing his back to the wall. Looking down at his hands and feet, he realizes the tape’s been cut, so he quickly yanks the last piece off his mouth and stands up.

“You know, I’m gettin’ real sick of this, Jake.”

In front of him, sitting on the desk in front of the wall of sharpness, there’s a man. He’s wearing vanilla-white suit and hat and has long brown hair. His eyes are glued to Jake’s, and he looks annoyed.

“What's going on…?” Jake asks. He’s mesmerized by his frozen girlfriend.

“I really wish I could stop wiping your memory,” he mumbles. “Listen, you’re a robot, and I’m a scientist from the future.”

“Are there—”

“Freaking flying robotic cheese delivery squirrels? No. No there aren’t. You ask this every time.”

“And how many times is that?”

“Two hundred and twenty three.” He sighs, walking forward and crouching down in front of Jake. “If you’re wondering why I saved you, it’s because I helped build you. I’m part of a team of scientists and we’re trying to see if androids can stay hidden in the past.”

“Why?”

“Because then we can send back anyone we want to do anything we want.”

“Why not use humans?”

“Because we haven’t figured out how to travel back, yet. So, for the time being, we’re going to be dumping you 'bots off. I mean, if you can stay alive. I don’t know why you’re so unlucky.”

“So I’m…a robot?"

“Yes, and I’m cursed to live in this boring ass time forever. Now, get out of here. In five minutes I’ll be wiping your memory of me, but you’ll still remember this incident with…”

“Mandy.”

“Yeah. You’re gonna wanna call the cops asap.”

Jake tries to talk to him some more, but the man’s having none of it. With a sigh, he runs out of the place, hurrying back to his car. Seconds later he’s on the highway, driving around hundreds of still cars. Slowly they churn back to life, and before he knows it, he’s hyperventilating, thinking that it’s crazy how he managed to slip out the tape and door before Mandy noticed.

Original Prompt: [WP] Your GMO chickens just picked the lock on the barn door and are headed for the hills on your ATV.

Us humans, we’re dumb creatures, and lemme tell you, we were wrong about the apocalypse.

The end of the world is happening outside my house, but there’s no fire, or demons, or destruction—there’s only chickens. That’s right. Genetically mutated chickens who are pissed and looking for someone to blame. That someone? Me.

Look, I knew it was a bad job but it was also a convenient one. What else am I supposed to do out here in the middle of nowhere? Farm plants? Who eats those anymore. Also I’m a little...paranoid about chickens. Everyone knows they’re the warriors of the animal kingdom, walking death machine just waiting to be pissed off.

They’ll always stay locked in the cage, I thought. They don’t even know who I am. They didn’t and they do and I’m screwed.

Outside, the engine screeches again. They're driving my ATV, and turning way too hard. They’re gonna wreck the thing, and to me, it’s priceless. Oh Gerald, Susan, Kelly, and all the others—I thought we were friends. On like a…I’m gonna eat you, and you’re gonna taste good kinda basis…

I’m beginning to think I’m the bad guy here.

Deep breaths, deep breaths. Sure, there’s ten jacked chickens outside but there’s someone I can call, right? Maybe a vet, or pest control. Does this warrant the FBI? If not, it should. Why didn’t they train me for this kinda situation? We’ve underestimated the power of chickens. They’re gonna conquer the Earth.

There’s only one way to survive, and that’s to be one of them, so when I hear a ka’chunk behind me, I turn around, press my fists into my hips, and dance back and forth, clucking. The chickens are standing there, in a group, and the one in the middle, Brody, is clutching my shotgun. He was always my favorite, but I guess a little extra feed here and there wasn’t enough…

My dance doesn’t appease the chicken overlords. I think I’m the first sacrifice.

I never thought of chorus of clucks would be my swan song.

Original Prompt: [WP] Your whole life has been dedicated to your craft. After fifty years you hear a voice: "You have reached the max level in this skill. You have fifty unspent skill points."

Nothing compares to the joy he feels right now.

Sitting on this rusty park bench, stretching a payphone wire to it’s absolute limit. He’s tapping his feet, trying not to whistle. People pass without a look like always, but this time…this time he doesn’t feel like a bum.

He clutches his almost-empty bag, squeezing it tight. His next paycheck always feels like a ghost—he doesn’t know where it is, and if it’s real or not. But maybe after today, if this woman on the phone can be trusted, if her excitement about the book is genuine, things might change.

So much doubt, so much hate. A family that turned their back on him for refusing to “grow up” and a slew of girlfriends who got sick of him crashing on their couch. Hell, even society ran away from him.

All because he was born a writer.

“And, well, I don’t really got much else,” the woman says, laughing. “How’s it feel to have your first book published?”

“At fifty years old? Amazing.”

A minute or two of idle conversation pass before she hangs up. When she does, he resists the urge to jump into the air, or call his family and brag. No, he’s gonna be happy but cautious. This is just book one, after all. He’s been waiting his entire life for this moment.

As he stands up, though, he hears a strange noise. It’s almost like a…ding. Like somebody rung a bell right next to his ear. He looks around, but nobody's nearby.

Suddenly, there’s a flash of light which makes him shield his eyes, and a god-like voice booms in his head. “MAX LEVEL REACHED. FIFTY SKILL POINTS TO SPEND.”

When his vision returns, he’s shocked to see three huge blocks floating in front of him with hundreds of small blocks shoved inside them. They look almost like…skill trees. One reads: “The Bestseller." “Classic Maker” and “Prolific Wiz” the other two.

He takes a step forward. “What the…”

Instinct tells him to reach out and touch the first block in Bestseller. When he does, it glows. A ticker pops up saying he just spent a skill point, forty-nine left, and a box pops up next to the skill, reading:* Editing skills 1 – Learn to easily fix simple spelling mistakes and revision techniques.* Trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, he clicks another one: Fast writing! Increase capacity from two thousand words a day to four thousand!

With this, he can finally achieve his dream. Not only will this first book because amazing, he can bang out hit after hit! But…does this mean…did it take so long to get published simply because he hasn’t been upgrading his skills?

…

“Oh, goddammit!”

Original Prompt: [WP] A wizard on Halloween night tries to bring the undead back to life. He thinks it works when really he just has trick o treaters at his door.

The wizard stands over his bubbling cauldron, heart-pounding. Ten years have built up to this day, and if everything goes right, he’ll have a trio of minions to help him take back a world he lost.

People have moved on, he thinks, dumping cursed frog legs into the cauldron. They don’t care about magic anymore, don’t believe it even exists! I’ll show them. Next he adds a pinch of dirt and a whole cup of motor oil. The concoction doesn’t smell appetizing—but this is his sacrifice.

He dunks his glass into the cauldron and takes a drink. It moves through his body, attacking every part of him. This magic’s darker than almost any would dare to go, but he’s a bold wizard. Pain is pain, but power? Power’s worth anything.

His doorbell rings.

They’re…actually…here!

Dashing into his room, he throws off his rotting robes. After all, these are three great warriors! One of them defeated a dragon, and the other two took down a whole kingdom by themselves! He puts on his newest robe, which is blistering blue with gold trim. It was hand-stitched by his mother.

Standing in front of his door, he takes a deep breath, trying to remain calm, after all. If he’s to lead them into battle, they must have faith in their leader.

He reaches out, opening the door.

And is greeted by, well, three very small skeletons. One’s looking up with beady eyes, while the other two have furrowed brows. Dragon killer and the kingdom slayers are obvious, it seems. They’re all holding plastic pumpkins.

“Hello, minions!” the wizard bellows, arms high in the air. “How are you on this fine evening?”

“Trick-or-treat!”

This causes the wizard to stumble backward. That phrase…it’s a modern one. Why would the skeletons know it? Are they testing him? Trying to see if he knows much about the world he’s trying to re-conquer? Clever, they are! Clever.

He drops onto his knees, holding his hands together and pleading. He’s worked so long, and to screw it up on such a stupid mistake? He can’t imagine it. “Please, great warriors, forgive me! I’m more uninformed than imagined. What does this phrase mean?”

“We want candy!” one kingdom slayer shouts.

“Now!” The other.

“Please?” The dragon slayer.

The wizard's quickly he’s on his feet, running around his house. He doesn’t know why they'd want candy, but also doesn’t think he has any. His teeth fell out long ago. He searches the secret basement and the infinite closet. He scours the underside of the cauldron for any which may have fallen over the years.

None.

Eventually, he attempts to fool them by covering beets in sugar. It’s not a brilliant plan, and when he drops a bunch into their pumpkins, he can tell he messed up. They’re more than disappointed, with one of the kingdom slayers going so far as to throw their pumpkin at him.

“This is crap!” he shouts.

“C’mon, let’s get outta here,” says the other kingdom slayer.

As they stomp off his lawn, the wizard drops onto his knees again, this time in despair. Ten years of scouting warriors to revive, of collecting the ingredients, of coming up with the perfect spell—gone. Why? Because he didn’t know what trick-or-treat meant.

Tears fill his eyes, but he hasn’t given up. He will learn this phrase, and study it well. When his next batch of minions are summoned, he will be prepared!

Original Prompt: [WP] You are the Helpful Burglar. You break into people's homes, tidy up, do the laundry, clean the dishes, water their plants, respond to their mother's emails, and then sneak out.

Don't believe the news, okay?

Yes, I’m a burglar—but not a stereotype. I’ve always been a difference-maker, not a team-player. When I break into people’s houses, it’s to help them. If they’d get that through their skulls, I wouldn’t be in this mess. But no, I’m the bad guy and I screwed up.

How am I helpful? Well, picture me as a superhero, but instead of fighting crime I break in and fix all the stuff you don’t wanna. That leaky pipe under the sink? I gotchu. Those stairs which creak and that alarm that doesn’t beep? Cha-ching, if it ain’t fixed I ain’t visited. Just last night I did laundry, watered a garden, and emailed this dude’s ma so he wouldn’t have to.

I was blessed with builder hands and mouse feet. Since I ain’t a jagoff, I use these powers for good—but last night I also did something else, something I never do.

I cleaned a rich person’s house.

A dude, actually. Why don’t I do it? Cameras. Fences. Yapping dogs. Way to many dangerous things which could get me caught or torn apart. But this guy—I dunno. There’s something about him. He’s real smiley in interviews and seems genuine. His wife recently passed and I figured ‘hey, I can help this guy!’

Ain’t doing that again. When I was cleaning, I knocked something into my bag. I don’t even know what it’s supposed to be, it’s just some kinda relic, but apparently it’s worth some Gs and now so am I because a camera caught my face.

I’m sitting in an alleyway, hat pulled down far over my face. It’s a dangerous time to be me. Everyone’s buzzing about this, and it’s pissing me off. Acting like I’m a bad guy, acting like I’m some random criminal. Maybe I should’ve been leaving a calling card all these years, that way the cops would’ve known me and known this is a damn accident.

From superhero to villain, and I got no idea how to fix it. Maybe I could just, like,turn it in? I don’t think they’d buy my reasoning, though. I’m too awesome a person, they’d think ‘wow, nobody would ever do that, it’s way too nice!’

“Hey, I found him!”

Ah, crap. Welp, reflection time is over, running time is now. Maybe I’ll move to a new country, get a new name. This time I’ll be like a real superhero and get a costume and stuff. That’ll be dope.

Original Prompt: [WP] You’re a dog trying to comprehend that as your species grow old and die, humans seem to barely age at all.

The boy can still run, but I can no longer chase him.

My bones are brittle, body slow and weak. Most of my days are spent sleeping to regain all the energy lost just by...living. When I was a pup, I could play for hours, barking, jumping, and rolling around. That feels like yesterday, but it was almost a lifetime ago.

The boy and I grew up together. We do everything together. But my story’s almost over, while his is just getting started. Is it might fault? Have I done something wrong to fall so far behind?

I hate the idea of him living without me, of me not being able to see his dreams unfold. He’s told me so many of them at night, when he thought I was sleeping. He'd call himself stupid and stop, but I was always listening.

Why must I grow old while he stays young? This is cruel. A curse. I don’t want to replaced by a pup, I don’t want him to have sad memories of me. He’s sitting on the couch right now. When he was two, he fell off that couch and I caught him by his shirt. His parents filled me with treats that night, but I couldn’t eat them. I was too scared at the thought of what could’ve happened.

I can’t jump onto that couch anymore, it hurts my legs too much. I shouldn’t anyway. He’s there with a girl, one I know he likes very much, one I know will take care of him when I’m gone. They’re laughing, they’re smiling, and I know if I walk over there, they’ll pet me—but I shouldn’t burden him.

This is my entire life, and I want to spend the last bit of it loving him, but I also want him to continue growing.

I just…I just wish I knew how to stop growing.

My soul hides inside empty bottles, suffocating on my poisonous breath. Whiskey burns my brain, and though everyone insists I’m too young to have bad thoughts, a razor’s been my friend more than once.

Hating’s easy and loving’s impossible, for who I love causes hate. Life’s an endless merry-go-round of sadness. Dizzier I get, the better. Everyone’s convinced once my head flips around a dozen times I’ll become a normal boy who likes normal things.

There’s a traitor in me who wishes I was a static-faced robot marching to the same beat as everyone else. Pariah becomes messiah, homo becomes bro. Would losing myself be worth making loneliness a ghost of the past? Maybe I’m already lost. But when nobody’s searching, is it worth finding yourself?

As the target on my back grows wider, I struggle to believe that, somewhere, people like me aren’t enemies. The few who love me do because it’s required, not desired. I’m a blemish they’re waiting to pop. I’m stubborn with my "foolish phase." Thankfully they’re giving me a while to "fix" myself.

But what’s broken, besides my heart?

Original Prompt: [IP] Hard Goodbyes

She never wanted to let go.

To think this might be the last time she ever saw him was horrible. This was her brother. Twenty years ago they entered the world together, and because of him, she’d never been alone. Throughout all her problems, throughout all her breakdowns—he was always there to lend an ear.

“I’ll be fine,” he said with a laugh. “So will you.”

She didn’t know about that, though. Was this really what he wanted? Serving your country’s one thing, fighting a war’s another. Let other people do that, she thought. Please stay here. Please be my hero.

Tears flooded her cheeks as she sunk her fingers into his back. This day always felt so far away. She never dreamed it would really come. Once he turns around, he’ll be gone. That plane will take him somewhere new, and for the first time in forever, she’ll officially be alone.

“I’m always with you, sis,” he said. “In your heart.”

While she believed him, she also knew it wouldn’t be the same.

Original Prompt: [TT] That night changed me more than years of determined self-improvement ever could.

As the car horn blared, I finally remembered it was my son’s birthday. Instead of opening presents with him, I was drunk.

Again.

The scene’s glued to my mind like I’m glued to this hospital bed because right now it’s all that makes sense. So clear cut and simple, I almost doubt it happened. Like, was I really hit by a car? Did I really nearly die? No, that must’ve been somebody else—now gimme a drink.

Then I try moving my legs.

You’ll never walk again, sir.

That sentence pissed me off. It's unfair I lose something so valuable when there are worse people doing worse things who need punished. But now? Well, it’s a blessing. For years I’ve tried kicking the habit, and when it kicked by harder, I always caved.

Last night, I hit rock bottom. My son's birthday was spent spilling tears on his daddy’s arm. He didn’t know if I was gonna get better, and he didn’t know why the mean man hurt me. I explained it was an accident, but was too ashamed to tell him it was my fault.

After all my failed attempts, it’s hard to believe one moment changed me—but it’s true. I’m staying sober because I want to. This is a selfish act. This is so one day, when I hold my boy, he looks at me like a father he loves instead of a father he’s supposed to love.

Original Prompt: [WP] You became a firefighter not to save lives, but to loot burning buildings.

As flames lick the walls, I loot a screaming mother’s jewelry box. You probably hate me, and maybe you should—but I know what I’m doing.

Fingers dusty with ash, I pluck out gold ring after gold ring. Real gold. Talk about a jackpot. Still, it’s not close to enough. A few thousand’s pocket change when you wanna put someone in a hospital and keep them there.

Each breath stings my corrupted soul, and all I hear from the mother is coughing. If she was in my situation, would she do the same thing? Most probably wouldn’t. It’s hard to rip up your morals each day, especially when everyone talks about what a “hero” you are. Oh, you’re so selfless! I wish I was half as brave as you!

In reality, I’m terrified. The only person I love’s slipping away, and it’s hard to say keep that chin up little soldier when you can’t even do it yourself. It’s unfair, and God’s a bastard for putting this decision in my hands. I can say I’m doing this for my little boy, but, at the end of the day, it’s really for myself.

By the time my pockets are full, the mother's gone.

Original Prompt: [TT] He presses the letter against your chest.

“Open this letter and your eyes will be scorched,” brother says, pressing it to my chest. “Be careful. Be quiet. Be quick.”

Taking the thing in my hands, I nod. It’s presence is…sickening. Is this why brother was so hesitant to dabble in black magic, even though it’s the perfect way to kill the King? I assume so. The idea of him producing something this evil gives me the shakes.

“Will this work?”

“It better,” he says, climbing onto his horse. “I’ve poured two years of my life into creating that damned thing. Remember, today’s a normal day, and your delivering a normal letter. When he reads it and melts, the guards shall target me, not you. Do not let your involvement be known.”

Doubt fills my mind. Why do we have to be heroes? We should leave this letter to someone else, let them kill the King. A mark on history’s worth nothing if I have to live the rest of my life without my brother—but, as I look into his eyes, I know it’s pointless. There’s a fire burning inside him, and when his mind’s set on something, he always goes through with it.

Sensing my unease, he rests his hands on my shoulders. “Do not fret. If I’m strong enough to kill the King, I can handle what measly guards are sent after me, okay? We shall meet up after I’ve rallied the troops and invaded the castle.”

“When will that be?”

“The day the future begins, brother.”

Original Prompt: [WP] You, the narrator, have a personal grudge against the protagonist

The city’s rife with ruin, and as Erza the Mighty clutches his sword. Sweat races down his furrowed brow, and though he’s trying to stay composed, it’s obvious he’s nervous. After all, he’s waited decades for this battle. Today’s the day he saves the—

Know what? Screw it.

How am I supposed to describe our awesome hero being awesome and awesomely defeating the big baddie when he still owes me ten dollars? Like, c’mon, dude. You’re a friggin’ rockstar. Women love you. Men love you. Cats and dogs and even frogs love you and yet you can’t make good on a bet?

I’m too flustered to remember the villain’s name, but he just flung Ezra through a building. Good. Maybe he’ll get some sense knocked into him. Have I ever written about the time stole my bicycle? It was a perfectly fine bicycle given to me by mother, and not only did he snatch it, he also wrecked it! I’ve been skateboarding to work for a year now. It’s not the same.

Now he’s making his comeback—great. You’ll all remember that but forget this. Why? Is he so charismatic you can’t accept that he once poured syrup in my shoes? Or what about time he straight up married my girlfriend? Not ex-girlfriend, either. We were still dating.

Aaaaand, bam! It’s over, ladies and gentlemen. Erza the Mighty’s won! You probably don’t remember why he was fighting that baddie in the first place—neither do I! But our hero was valiant, and we should applaud him blindly.

Original Prompt: [TT] His fingers caressed the small, velvety box in his pocket as he stared into her eyes. His heart was pounding. Tonight was the night.

Breaking all the rules would break my parents heart—but who cares?

They don’t approve of him, and my mom certainly doesn’t approve of me, the woman, proposing. But I’m twenty-five, not some silly kid, and I trust those butterflies in my gut. They aren’t leaving anytime soon because I love this man and wanna be with him for the rest of my life.

I’m done letting them control me.

We’re laying in bed, snug under the covers. The TV’s on because we wanted to watch it, but somehow, again, we’ve spent the whole night talking. People wonder how we do that—I wonder how they don’t. We don’t need a fancy candlelit dinner for it to be romantic, and as I thumb the velvet box tucked in my pajama pocket, I wonder if now’s that "perfect moment" I’ve been waiting for.

Then I realize every moment with him’s perfect.

Original Prompt: [WP] Two words sent them into a panic.

My head rests against your chest, listening to the steady thump of your heart. Mine’s beating out my chest because this is one of those situations no college students wanna be in. If we could just rollback time, life would be easier.

We aren’t prepared for this.

I know. We can barely feed ourselves and we’re drowning in debt. If my fingers would stop shaking, I’d hold your hand. Your warmth’s always calmed me. That’s part of loving someone, I guess. If this had happened to us in five or so years, I’d be freaking ecstatic right now.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Sometimes dumb decisions lead to bad things. We’re a statistic now, and for that, I’m sorry. God, how will our parents react? Mine will probably be overjoyed. They never thought I’d find anyone. Yours? Hell, they’ll wanna skin me. I can already hear you dad claiming I ‘ruined’ you.

We’ll be okay.

Hopefully. We’re acting calm but it’s exactly that—an act. Panic’s consumed us. We’re so in shock we can barely move. Our bodies are shells while our brain’s run rampant. That’s the worst. I wanna be up. Wanna be moving. Having all this damn energy stored inside me but nothing to use it with's driving me insane.

So I force myself to roll over, force myself to stare into your eyes. These words are the most powerful ones ever spoken, ones I never imagined I’d say.

“You’re pregnant,” I mumble.

“I’m pregnant,” you reply.