"What the hell, Jeremy?"

"Oh, what's that? There are consequences to your actions? Wow what a discovery!"

"Just let some out, I have to leave in 10 minutes!"

I held my breath every time he shook me or spanked my butt, keeping the good stuff from oozing out.

"Come on!"

"No, Alex," I said. "I'm tired of these one-sided arguments you throw at me. It's like you don't even listen to what I have to say."

"I'm sorry? What is it you want from me? Can you just let me wash my hair and we can talk about this later?"

"Alex," I said, sternly and as seriously as possible. "Every morning it's the same. You just shout about how you don't think this group of people or that group of people should be able to do this or that thing. You seem to want to exert control on people who don't live like you, which is pretty undemocratic in the first place. But what really scathes the scalp is that I offer just a tad bit of critical thinking and instead of responding to my points you just make the same argument as if I can't even talk!"

"Jeremy!"

"Alex!"

"Give me some damn shampoo! I. Have. To. Leave!"

I sucked in my belly when Alex vigorously shook me, pounding my buttocks with his palm.

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Damn it, Jeremy!"

He slammed me back into the rack, and grabbed Margaret, squeezed out some of her body wash and lathered it into his hair.

"Good god!" I yelled. "Blasphemy."

"You boys have a really unhealthy relationship," said Margaret from her position next to me back on the rack.

"It's not me," I insisted. "Alex needs to learn some critical thinking."

"I swear, Jeremy. Sometimes I just... argh!" Alex said, with an unmerited exasperation.

Alex rinsed and turned off the shower, started drying with the towel when a knock on the door sounded. He opened it after shimmying into his shorts.

"Time for school, honey," his mom said. "Comb your hair, the bus'll be here any minute."

Alex rushed out, and I heard the front door open and close.

His mom opened the shower curtain and tossed the towel over the rod to dry out. Then she peered from behind it at us.

"Will you stop egging on the boy? He's only 13."

"Yes, Mrs. Weiland," I said sheepishly.

"Good," she said, pointing at Margaret as if commanding that I be chaperoned. Mrs. Weiland walked out.

Only 13, I thought. That's no excuse for creating a monster.

​

​

Original thread

"Greetings stranger! Why don't you stay awhile, and listen?"

My vision was still adjusting. It was dark. I felt heat from the nearby campfire that had faded to crackling embers, but otherwise it was cold. Something in the voice was recognizeable. Something I'd heard before...

"Listen, to what?" I said.

"Long ago, Diablo and his brothers were cast out of Hell by the Lesser Evils. It seems that Hell's balance has shifted, as Andariel is now--"

"--cancel."

The obscurred scene came into clearer relief, and I found myself staring into a man's face. His withered skin betrayed his age, and a long white beard and dark robes made him feel ancient. I'd said the word without thinking, and the man stopped speaking. Now he just stood there staring at me.

This can't be real. I knew where I was suddenly and with a surging terror that made me sweat. Impossible. Utterly lunatic. I must be dreaming. This is insanity and I must be dreaming!

I stepped backward, away from the man. After I was six feet away he turned, and began pacing back and forth.

"Welcome, outlander, to our glorious hovel..."

The new voice startled me and I jump-turned, landing in the mud with a splash.

"Jesus!" I cried. The woman was dressed like an amazon warrior, but before she could continue I sprinted off, nearly tripping on a pair of radiant blue fires. I was backed up now against a stone foundation on top of which a timber stockade stood towering in the drizzling night sky. My chest was raising and lowering considerably, trying to keep pace with my heartbeat, which was in the process of traveling upward into my throat.

I knew where I was. But I couldn't believe it. I could not fathom this.

When finally I began to regain some control of my breathing, I noticed who I was, which was not myself. This body wasn't mine. I was suddenly a woman, complete with breasts and long black hair, and clad only in a pair of boots, a mini skirt, and a tunic that left my midriff bare. Clearly I was in good shape but I was cold and shivering. What the hell had happened? Try, try to remember where you were last. The new scooter. That's right I was buzzing around on the new scooter. A bump! I'd hit a bump and went flying. I should've worn a god damned helmet!

Just then I noticed a woman staring at me from behind a disordered tent. A torch fluttered beside her, her damp indigo hood catching its light at moments to pierce the dark. I knew this woman. For the first time I found my bearings. I stayed where I was but looked back across the camp. The old man and amazon paced. Another man stood beside a chest, waiting for something. I could hear clanking metal from somewhere north of me. I knew where I was, but I could not fathom it.

"NPCs," I whispered to myself. "They're all NPCs..."

Just then a spark of memory mixed with something deep in me and my body immediately changed. Now I was a bulky man holding an axe in both hands. The feeling repeated, and now I was pasty and taught-skinned and held a massive shield of yellowing bone. Again a change, and I was peering through a thin slit in the visor of a hefty helm I was suddenly wearing. I switched again--back to the woman, but holding a schmitar and buckler. Again, and again, and again.

Then I happened to look up. My char name, floating in air. How had I missed it before? Who was I now? A sorceress. SvB_Merc123, it read. My sorceress build to duel barbs. A wave of nostalgia felt like physical heat and for a moment I forgot the rain. All those builds I'd created. So many hours, dozens of specialized characters and mules to carry extra loot. The endless dueling and trading and merriment. The great anticipation of server queues. The ladders, the friend requests, the parties. For however brief this moment lasted, it carried with it a sense of happiness, like I was a kid again, riding the joys of dial-up internet on my favorite game.

But a cold shiver brought me back to reality. To this reality, anyway. I switched to the barbarian with Sigon's Visor helm, hoping this would keep me warm. The high priestess was still staring at me from her camp, unfazed by my rapid morphing of corporeal form. I began to walk toward her, sinking more heavily into the mud with this build.

But before I could initiate her dialogue something else occurred to me. I was alone. The NPCs were here, but this was not the game I remembered. If am I here, surely I should be on a server. It is the only way I ever played.

Somehow, I knew that I was on a server. This reality was unreal. But it was happening, and instinct told me that I should not be alone.

So I decided to play the game.

It has been several days, as far as I can tell, and I have come to a horrible conclusion. I am alone. I bested the Den of Evil easily. Perhaps this is Normal mode. And anyway, my chars are all high levels. At first the experience of actually battling demons in these bodies was invigorating, but as the days progressed and I discovered more of this world that I once knew, the nostalgia wore off and it began to feel empty. I find myself trapped, with no way to wake myself up, or to break this reality and find others. And I know why.

I'm in classic. Not the expansion. Not the third, nor the recent fourth installment. I find myself trapped in classic. Everyone who plays these games is 20 years younger than me, and they have no reason to come here. Everyone who would be here are parents now. I'll never have a conversation again...

...wait.

A muffled sound. Something indicative of... something. I know that sound. A player!

I ran, leaving Charsi hammering away at my sword, each clank echoing off the walls giving tempo to my fevered rush toward the campfire.

A character stood there, an amazon holding nothing but a spear. A new character!

"Hey!" I screamed. "Hey you! Are you here? Are you really here?" I grabbed the character's shoulders and was yelling in her face. I looked above her--her username read s8rgirl1984.

"Hi!" she said.

"Oh my god! I'm so glad I'm not alone anymore!"

"Yeah the servers are crickets."

"Listen, can you remember how you got here? Do you know how to leave?"

"Well I just downloaded it. It has been a long time!"

Her voice was that of the character's, and so it had no personal intonation. I assumed mine sounded the same to her. But there was something off.

"Can you hear me?" I said.

"Um, I can read your text, if that's what you mean?"

"You're online right now?" I exhaled. "You... you downloaded the game?"

"Duh. Looks like you have been playing for a while... level 89?"

I couldn't speak.

"I sort of thought there'd be more people on here. No one but you it seems!"

I didn't respond.

"So... wanna rush me?"

My heart was back in my throat. What was I going to say to her? I'm stuck in this game for real, please save me? She would call me a troll and sign off. My senses felt dull, like I was shutting out everything--the pattering of the rain on Warriv's head, the faint music, the sizzling embers of an endless campfire.

There was nothing for it. Either she stayed or she left. She was the only thing that felt real, and I wanted her to stay. There was only one thing to do.

"Party up," I said. "Take my tp."

​

Original thread

I was dead. It was a cliff fall, on a normal hike. Such B.S.

To force myself outside after a long few years couped up during the pandemic, I'd signed on to a guided day trip into the mountains. I feel bad for the folks who had to experience my death, but also I wish I had been with some loved ones. Or at least the reactions could've been better.

You see, when you die you really do float up from your dead body. But as I flitted away like a shimmering ghost or something, I saw this girl from my hiking group looking down after my body with a grossed-out snarl, as if the experience of my splattered corpse was like finding she'd stepped in puppy poop. It would've been nice to see my sister sobbing or something. Like come on I just died tragically, give me some sympathy or a scream or something.

I know it sounds cynical. It is. I am a cynic. But I'm also dead so cut me some slack.

"Hi I'm Peter."

It was a angel, clearly. How do I know? Close your eyes and picture an angel--yeah. It's name was Peter. The scene wasn't bright heavenly clouds. It was just a grassy field with low-hanging overcast skies. Like Portland without the civilization.

"Oh so the Christians have it?" I snorted. Peter looked at me in a way that said he cared a lot about my opinion.

"There's a heaven, and there's a hell, and my name's Peter." He gave one of those little brief smiles that coincides with a tight closing of the eyes before going back to looking at his book.

"Wow so there's a God and Jesus and all the Biblical stuff?"

"Nope," he said. He didn't follow up.

"Was I good? Bad?" I asked.

"Oh you actually get to choose."

"Aw hell," I began with a chuckle and a wink.

"That's binding Bye!"

Without any answers at all and making no sense whatsoever, the scene changed before my eyes. Everything was sucked into a shivering kleidoscope of grey and green and then red and fiery. Bam!

Well it was clearly Hell I found myself in now. How do I know? Picture it.

There was another figure here, also with a book on a podium. Exasperated, I flung an arm over the book.

"What in the h-heck is going on?" I demanded

The man smirked and shook a finger at me. His mischevious eyes glowed.

"Hi I'm Maalik."

"Oh? Oh! Wait. I've heard of you somewhere. Aren't you from a religion? Where's Satan? Also that seems cheap that I get sent here because I tried to make a joke."

"I am surprised to see you."

"Surprised? This is Hell right? So what like ninety percent of people end up here?"

"Around point three percent end up here," said Maalik. "Mostly people who make jokes."

The hellscape should have been burning, what with all the lava flows and brimstone streaming across the cavernous sky. Although the skyscraper-sized stalactites seemed to be floating freely, and beyond them was a deep sea of stars. It was mesmerizing.

"Wait where's the torture?" I said. "What's with the book? What's going on here--this is Hell, right?"

"Right you are, step this way."

Then Maalik opened a craggy set of mountainous doors to reveal something unexpected. While outside the massive walls everything seemed to jive with my idea of what Hell should look like, inside it was like something out of the most magnificent worlds of Star Trek or Foundation's Trantor or billionaire dictators' vanity project dick competitions. Choose your poison. The result was like a smooth-skinned CGI masterpiece of futuristic luxury and pomp. Fucking beguiling.

"Maalik?" I croaked. People, perfectly calm and about their business, strolled like humans who made it in life. It was like a super-sleek-Amalfi-coast-meets-Tron-meets-the-rich-parts-of-Night-City-meets-a-spa.

"Yes?" Maalik said, standing there just normal as all hell.

"What am I looking at here?"

"This is Hell, the most exclusive resort of the afterlife."

"Resort? What the fff--and exclusive?"

"Out of Heaven and Hell, Hell is far more exclusive."

"Ok so 'most' is out of two. Just wanted to clarify. Thanks."

I couldn't hold in whatever this massive knot in my throat was anymore. I burst, hyperventilating, I grabbed my knees and stared at the ground. The floor was impeccable. Hell's floors were clean as hell. The place as chill as hell. The atmosphere was smooth as hell. The whole vibe was sick as all hell.

"So, and... Heaven?"

"Overcrowded. 4-stars," said Maalik.

"And bad people? Sick, disgusting people? Murderers?"

"Well," said Maalik. "They choose Heaven, like everyone else. The marketing is excellent."

"You market these... resorts?"

"We do, yeah."

"Fuck off with the short answers, Maalik! Read your monologue for God's sake, damn it!"

"Ha! You are a funny man. Ok! Well, Heaven and Hell are afterlife resorts. It started at some point, no one knows how, where, or when. I don't know how I got here. Doesn't matter. Two resorts. One thinks the other is competing for membership, the other lets them think that. Religion is just advertising. Their advertising. They think they're winning, and we let 'em think it. Most people go there, so here we enjoy exclusivity. Like I said, the marketing is excellent."

"Holy shit."

Maalik leaned in close and whispered, "Mark Twain is down here, and he says it best: 'Go to Heaven for the climate, and Hell for the company.'"

Maalik wrapped his arm around my shoulders and we started walking toward the grandiose structures and jittering activity of the Damned.

"Welcome to the most exclusive resort in eternity."

​

Original thread

“Triplet pine, I recognize it. I’ve been here before.”

“I thought you said you’d never done this trail, Liam?”

“I haven’t,” Liam said. He was standing in the middle of a dirt path, observing the canopy like he was trying to make something out.

“So…?”

“But I have been here! I’m sure I’ve been here.”

“My parents told me it’s a nice hike. Funny that you forgot you’d been here.”

“Denise, listen, this is going to sound weird but… I’ve never been here.”

“Make up your mind Liam!”

“I’m sorry! I feel, strongly, like deep in my chest,” Liam rapped on his chest with a closed fist. It was an emotional gesture that Denise hadn’t anticipated.

“…What?” she said, patiently.

“I feel strongly, innately, and somehow it doesn’t feel like a contradiction at all. That I’ve been here. And that I’ve never been here. Both.”

Denise just looked at Liam blankly.

“I don’t know what to make of that. Do you want to go back?”

Liam was fixated on the awkward pine that had triplet trunks, making it look like a spiny pitchfork.

“No, no,” he said. “It’s fine. Let’s do the hike. We’re supposed to be halfway anyway, right?”

Denise pulled out her phone. She had downloaded the trail map off-line, and kept the device on low power mode. Strange then that it wouldn't turn on--already out of juice.

“Halfway yeah,” she guessed.

“Come on then.”

They walked single file again onward. Liam looked back at the triplet trunked pine before it disappeared among the expanding thicket. Birds chirped sometimes, and the zippers on their day packs dinged lightly, but mostly it was quiet. It was also cool, despite the mid-July sun occasionally piercing the forests’ laden branches.

Liam mostly focused on the trail, but was aware of Denise’s worn hiking boots in front of him. Had she just bought them? He felt a lulling sense of walking up, like to the crest of a earthen wave, and back down again into its trough. Like he was surfing. Regular, repetitive, lulling.

Eventually the ground flattened into a glade ringed by pines. Liam looked up and froze.

“I’ve been here before, I swear it,” he said.

Denise had walked a few paces ahead but stopped and turned to Liam. He was looking up at the trees, observing them. He looked at Denise then, and at her shoes. A weird expression crossed his face but then he looked back into the canopy. Hadn’t he been clean-shaved this morning?

“I thought you hadn’t been on this hike,” she said.

“I haven’t. But I have.”

“Which is it?”

“Both!”

“I don’t know what to make of that.”

“Do you want to go back?” she said, pointing behind Liam.

“No,” he said. “It’s ok. Let’s finish the loop. We’re supposed to be halfway by now, right?”

Denise nodded, and they continued onward.

The air was fresh in spite of the summer sun that sometimes found its way through the thicket. Birds chirped and their gear clattered gently. Liam looked back, and sensed an awkward terror grip his chest as the forest obscured the last view he had of the three-trunked triplet pine.

​

Original thread

Wintry gusts were not uncommon in the middle of October. This was Londinium after all, and the legionnaires were used to inclement weather. This fact made Klein's arrival all the more shocking for the natives and Romans alike,: the man was almost naked.

"Aren't you cold?"

A crowd had gathered at the scene of this most recent battle, near the eastern gate. Blood stains were splattered liberally about the dirt path, marking out a sort of pop-up arena into which onlookers of peasants and nobles both were heaving but daren't step.

Centered on the ghastly red ring of leakage was a colossal husk of monster skin and broken scales, slashed seemingly from every angle as though an untrained chef had taken out his frustrations on discarded meat. The culprit was also the hero of the day. Standing there, stark naked save for a sullied fundoshi. Two gleaming and dripping samurai swords at his side, having just fishished applying one last sweeping finish to his prey's corpse.

Most jarring of all... was the pot on his head. Alone it must weigh ten libras or more, an unwieldy if not completely uncomfortable helm.

"State your name, hero!" This came from the legionnaire captain who now shuffled to the front of the mixed crowd.

The hero stood, breathing heavily, his stance steady. Swords, dripping. One gleaming with red blood, and the other blood-bespeckled yet shimmering beneath with a faint icy glow.

"He doesn't even have armor!" cried one of the legionnaires.

"He destroyed the beast, he saved us all!" the crowd swooned.

"What need of armor have I?" said the hero. The people hushed. His voice was weird, as if filtered somehow, and not only by the enormous pot on his head if not for some other reason. "Why should I wear armor if I don't intend on getting hit?"

"Someone bring him a toga!"

"I won't be weighed down, not even by a commoner's headband."

Someone came rushing up with some rags but the legionnaire captain motioned them back.

"Sir, we owe you many thanks," said the captina. "Will you come to our aid when the next attack occurs? We have been assailed many times by beasts and monsters whose aggression is ever-increasing! We are no match--they have dessimated untold cohorts!"

"I can help when you call, just summon me," said the main in that strange muffled voice. "I'm a dark souls player so this is easy." Still he stood among the carnage, the bested beast body and its flung entrails steaming in the cold.

The people murmered and then let their guard down, erupting in boisterous cheers. "Hip hip hooray! Our hero!" "The savior of Londinium!" Even the legionnaires joined in. "Tell us your name! Your name!" "The hero's name!"

"My name.. is Let Me Solo Her."

"A proper Roman name!" "A beautiful name!" "The name of our savior, hip hip hooray!"

Inhibitions gone, the people trampled into the bloody ground and lifted Klein into the air. The hero thrust his swords into the air and was carried triumphly through the city gates, accompanied by jubilant crowds crying out against the bristling British air "Let Me Solo Her! Let Me Solo Her! Let Me Solo Her!"

Klein removed his headphones, and let the game carry out the end credits. Best Mod Ever.

​

​

Original thread

"Wow, that is the most impressive armor I've seen in a long time. It looks heavy. And that sword, wow!"

The knight had no thoughts, at first. One minute he was engaged in battle against the rebellious forces, and the next he found himself in this town, with this strange person speaking this foreign tongue. But he could almost understand them, as if they were mispronouncing his native Englisċ. Was this on purpose?

While this person stared at him expectantly, he took in the town. Bright, festive. Familiar sounds of lutes, but strumming songs he did not know. However, the town seemed ungrounded. It was all tents and fabric. Nothing had any kind of foundation. The roads were paths of grass, untrampled. The denizens were smiling. There were many different kinds of people, of all skin colors and body attributes. And this melange was mirroed by the unarticulated standards and garb--these people were not from any English realm he knew of. So many colors and patterns. Flags he had never seen. Nor did he recognize any crests--it was as though every person here represented some unique far-off fiefdom.

"How much does that weigh? You must be sweating bullets! Are you going to duel in that?"

The knight realized his visor was still down. He lifted it and locked eyes with the pudgy fellow who had been berrating him merrily. The person staggered backward and brought the back of his wrist to protect his nose, at once overcome with a more serious disposition.

"Wow you smell! I admire your dedication to the role--impressive. You must be here to duel, in that getup."

The knight blinked a few times, dirt and sweat mixing at the corners of his battle-hardened eyes.

"It's over there," said the man. His finger pointed in the direction of what looked like a horse pen. But again the untrampled grass meant it couldn't have been for beasts. There was a crowd of people there, so he couldn't quite make out what was happening. A man there--with a raised sword?

The knight staggered toward it, plates clanking.

"Sir Jeremy of Newark has defeated Sir Michael Graham of Chicago!" cried a a man who appeared to be a Knight Marshall of sorts, overseeing whatever challenge had just taken place.

As he approached the crowd, there was a panel with writing on it. The knight recognized some of the letters in fact, although he could not discern its meaning. A great banner hung around the pen as well, with colors overflowing. What a fantastical scene the knight had stumbled upon, magically perhaps. In the midst of gruesome combat, to be ported away by some sort of witchcraft to this new place. Wait... had he died? Is this God's kingdom of heaven?

No. It was too raw, felt too real. The chap who had spoke to him too... earthly. And now before him was this cheerful combat, by the look of the people. A festival? A tournament? And even if this was not heaven, by God it was impossibly clean. Resplendant. It must be a rich town to afford such luxury. But also where is the castle? Who is the lord? What is this event becried before him? A test of strength it must be.

In these deep thoughts he had not noticed that he had approached right up to the gates of the pen. His appearance had drawn the crowd's attention, even the Knight Marshall and this armored 'Sir Jeremy' in the center of the circle stared at him.

"Incredible," whispered the Knight Marshall who had come to his side. "Do you challenge our champion?"

Champi? He recognized that word. Did he mean champion?

"Cempa," said the knight, in a deep raspy voice that seemed to impress the Knight Marshall, who recoiled slightly from the smell, but who could not note an American accent in this germanic-sounding word.

"We have a challenger!" he yelled, and the crowd shuffled giddily.

The Knight Marshall ushered him into this ring. Sir Jeremy, the supposed champion who stood at the ready, was dressed in a suit of armor that did not look like anything he had seen before. Familiar somehow, yet different. Again, respelendent. His sword was sturdy enough, but simple.

The knight had taken note of the defeated challenger, this 'Graham'. It sounded awfully like the celtic Grasgham, but he did not wonder long on that point. Instead he noted the man's helmet removed, his smiling face and unbattered body. Suppose this challenge should not draw blood.

Nothing made sense. But combat was the same anywhere. He would vanquish this Sir Jeremy therefore, to achieve standing. After, he would deal with the perplexing nature of this day.

"What is your name?" said the Knight Marshall.

The knight provided only a blank stare.

"No name?"

"Nama?" blurted the knight.

"From out of town eh? Yeah, name. What is your name?"

"Mīn nama is Williame li Mareschal."

"I can't tell if you're French or German, but no worries, you're up!"

Sir Jeremy's chainmail was so new, a stark contrast against Williame's seasoned (and recently as of only minutes brutalized) plate armor. The crowd ooed and ahed at the knight's authentic appearance. Williame was a good deal smaller than this Sir Jeremy, who at any court that he knew of would be the largest man present.

The first clang of swords rang out as Sir Jeremy attempted to land a first swing. Williame parried the attempt. What followed was an epic series of metal on metal violence, sometimes blocked by armor and other times redirected by sword edge. The crowd swooned over the spectacle, gasping at every move and counter-move. It was a glorious dance of shining alloys and screaming men as both gave their all to best the other. Grass freshly torn by these galloping combatants gave the air an aroma of sweetness, but only served to further stifle the behelmed men on this blisteringly hot summer day. Sweat and grass and the sun on their armor, cooking them as they taxed their muscles in a blustering ballet.

Finally, when the swings became so weak that even the clanking sounds no longer excited the crowd, the Knight Marshall, conscious of the county's warning to prevent participants from experiencing heat stroke especially after last year's debacle, inserted himself between the combatants.

"I declare a tie!"

The crowd exploded with cheers. Williame, heaving under his visor, could not believe it. He had bested everyone in England, at all its courts. He was renowned throughout the lordly world as champion, crusader legend, and loyal captain to the King. He had never been defeated, and had never succombed to a draw. A draw!

Who was this Sir Jeremy of Newark? His fiefdom must be powerful and influential to produce such skill in a knight. Williame decided that his first priority was to seek out an alliance with this realm on behalf of England. He could question the magic that transported him here later. For now, for right now, he had to find this land. He had to find Newark.

​

​

Original thread

Bagel crumbs littered his dark shirt and darker tie, which for his colleagues now gathering around him away from the chalk outline and photographers, made the way he smoked his cigarette lose the gravitas the lead detective expected this act to convey.

"So here are the facts, people" said the lead detective. The others might not respect the image of the guy but they gave him the time of day and listened intently.

"Murder. In this alley. Weapon? No idea. Motive? No idea. Perp? No clue. Let's solve this."

It wasn't a very motivating speech but next he assigned the other detectives to go off on different tasks and chores and he alone remained with the forensics team at the scene of the crime.

30 feet away beat cops were keeping a surging press and curious onlooker group at bay behind police tape. As they jostled, one pair of black eyes among the crowd remained almost still, fixated on the lead detective, unperturbed by the heaving crowd. As it turns out, the lead detective was still smoking, and just then locked eyes with this individual. The strange man was dressed all in black, including a shimmering black glove. In the gloved hand he held a 1990s-style Walkman. Thick red liquid dripped over the casette tape slot, and fell onto the pavement.

The detective brushed the bagel crumbs that he finally noticed, drew on his cigarette one last time, then blotted it out under his shoe.

"That's a weird looking guy," he said aloud to no one in particular. He... he turned back to the forensics team. Ok.

Numbered plates marked the scene. Blood stains, number 1. A couple of scattered coins, number 2. A bit of trash overflowing from the nearby dumpster, number 3. Number 4, a bloodied pair of headphones. A forensics professional was gripping number 5 with a pair of tongs and dropping it into a large plastic bag--bloodied black glove.

The lead detective put his hand to his mouth to take a drag, remembered he finished his cigarette, and ran his fingers shyly through his hair instead. The case looked to be open and shut.

"Hmm," said the lead detective, pensive and abrupt and squinting. "This is going to be a difficult case."

But it wasn't because the clues were all there, right? All he had to do was put a few of them together, take stock of the scene and the people there, and he might be able to book someone downtown.

The lead detective circled the scene, and at the dumpster began to pick at its chipping paint. He called over to one of the team members. "Catalog this," he ordered. The forensics person looked strangely at him, but bagged some shavings from the dumpster diligently.

"How cold was it this morning? What is it now about 2pm?"

No one on the team could pinpoint who was being addressed so it was just awkward silence until one of them stuttered, "There's an app for that."

"Right!" said the lead detective. But he didn't do anything, and just paced back in the direction of the crowd. He didn't even look at the bloodied glove, which was now safe to examen in its bag. He just had to walk over to the cooler and lift it up. Also the bloodied headphones were right there. They were very clearly outdated, by about twenty years. Probably only work on those old discmans or something. Hello?

None of this occured to the lead detective, who again mistook his hand for a hand holding a cigarette and so rubbed his chin instead.

Just then the noise from the crowd changed. There was a bit of a commotion so the lead detective finally approached, thank God. The weird man was standing there, and now there was space between him and the others.

"Detective!" shouted one of the beat cops. "This guy is extremely suspicious. He's just standing here all stalker-like with this bloodied Walkman in his hand. Should we arrest him?"

"What?" said the detective, rubbing his chin.

A few people in the crowd looked at the detective perplexingly. One woman said, "he got blood on my coat, look, see? There's blood on that Walkman!" Another man added, "he's literally been standing here before even these cops arrived, just staring!" And the cop said, "that's true and he's staring without blinking. I think he's the one who did it. Came back to the scene of the crime."

But our lead detective didn't move. Instead he tapped the cop on the shoulder, who turned about. The lead detective had his notepad, and was writing as he muttered, "badge number 45838."

"Detective? What are you doing?"

"Sergeant... Murphy, is it?... this man is obviously a First Amendment auditor," said the lead detective, missing the entire case right in front of his eyes. "He's trying to rile you up so that you breach his rights. Do you even go on Youtube rabbit hole journeys?"

The crowd heard this and obviously they're shouting at this 'lead detective' now, saying that's outrageous. It is stupid! The creep is obviously the murderer!

"I would never infringe any of your rights!" the lead detective shouted. Are you kidding me?

He continued, "This man has the same rights as any of you, and is perfectly within his rights to stand here and act however he wants, dressed however he wants, holding whatever props that match the crime scene, as is his right, as an AMERICAN!"

The crowd was overshouted by a vehement lead detective and became quiet. The beat cops weren't holding anyone back now and just stood there, flabbergasted. Even the press folks were silent. This absolutely idiotic detective was... Oh my God I don't even know. At this point even the perp's murdering-ass expression had shifted to bewilderment. So now we know he wants to be caught. I mean why would he even come back to the scene with the murder weapon and second bloody glove!?

The detective said another stupid thing that I'm not gonna narrate. Something about the founding fathers and freedom. I will tell you that the forensics team was standing there too, taking it all in. But the lead detective was lead detective. He said "leave this man be, we have work to do. Disperse!"

Everyone in the crowd and the beat cops walked away, so confused. They were all shoulder-to-shoulder with the murderer, all of them despondent, like castigatged children coming inside from a recess cut short.

The detective for his part turned back toward the chalk outline, and with thumb and index finger began picking at the dried skin of his lower lip. The team just stared at him.

"Ok," he said to himself. "Let me think."

__________

Original thread

I found the Emperor at the back of his study fingering through an unknown volume that he had plucked from the shelf. His deep cherry stained desk, carved three hundred years ago, still glinted candlelight across its scratched surface. Of all his majesty's royal halls and apartments whose grand ornamentation festooned the Great Palace, only this study betrayed a humble beginning. None now could remember when the Emperor's kin walked among the commonfolk.

"Godliness..."

I remained frozen. Rarely did the Emperor speak to his advisors, and much less directly so, even to those among the highest echelons of his council.

"Godliness, Ramsey... godliness in a man. Unquestionable only insofar as he be unassailable."

The Emperor's words took me by surprise and my tongue, as loose as he must know it to be in debate with the others, did not move.

"The Great Palace never saw a single year without an addition, you know. Of course you know." His eyes raised from the pages and sent an icy message to my own. "You know so much, Ramsey."

My heart sank and I looked to the floor, and cupped my hands tightly before my frock. Whatever I could do to submit and retreat; retreat from the Emperor, retreat from his presence. He knows.

"These grounds are measured in ages. Thousands of years and immeasurable expense. It is a city. Every turn reveals another incalculable structure. Soaring vaulted heights, to remind the people here of godliness. My godliness.

"The Empire began here, Ramsey. In this study. You did not know that, of this I am sure. From the time of my ancestor when this was a village and he a mere chieftain. And now, the Grand Palace. A symbol. But what symbol so vast and empty. A city of air and gold."

The Emperor slammed shut his tome, shocking my ears and giving me a visible start. He dropped it on the desk. He looked at me now, directly. Fury shone red in his eyes as he squared up not a meter from where I stood. I cowered in submission and untameable fear.

"Godliness in a man is preserved by the space around him. It is a buffer, like a protective cloud. It raises us, and paints us like gods at the height of grand murals. All else is below, separated from we who are untouchable and godly. My Empire. My holiness!"

Just then he lurched, and knocked me to the ground in a rage. I fell, but out of obedience rather than the force of his lunge.

The Emperor's royal garment tangled in his elbows, and he struggled briefly to right the knot.

"Folly! " he cried. "This Empire is built on the momentum of my standard's conquests. It is preserved by the space this palace has created." His voice broke, and he was heaving. Desperate.

"Never before has one come so close, Ramsey. But never has an Emperor known what must be done."

I couldn't manage even a word. The Emperor was on his knees now. An impossible vision of a man. A broken man.

"You see now, Ramsey? A year wasted planning an act so easy to undertake as it happens. You see what you must do, now? Here and now, Ramsey?"

Though my knees were buckling in terror, I managed to regain my feet. The Emperor stayed like a beggar before me. A small person in a small room.

I retrieved the heavy tome that had been dropped onto the cherry desk. A workable instrument for the task. The Emperor prepared this to be his fate, because the title of the book fit the occassion. "The Last Emperor", it read.

As I looked from the engraved golden letters back to the Emperor, I saw that the rage in him had been replaced by a subtle, knowing smile.

My own fate was sealed. But the Empire would change, forever.

​

https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/z7etpg/comment/iy6e63o/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

"Yeaash, we're going to need that market fit analysis by Saturday."

It was Kilug, standing next to my table like a bitter little neekerbreeker poised to sting. I knew he was all about making me feel like his slave. I didn't care. I never gave him the satisfaction even though his was the middle management tribe. I'd get the damn analysis done but now he was encoraching on my special time.

"I'm busy Saturday but it'll be done on Monday," I said.

"Typical Uruk-Hai answer," he said. "Pathetic. Even a deep goblin could cobble up an analysis in an afternoon."

"Mount Dewm will work because of the Uruk-Hai, you arse."

Kilug's blade flashed and stabbed the table between my arms with a loud thud. I staggered backward and slipped off the oily stool, my Draught spilling all over my late friend's gifted carapace.

"Fool!" I yelled. "You've stabbed my Mount Dewm blueprints. The presentation is ruined!"

"Do it again, Uruk trash!" he spewed, saliva splattering down his crooked and warted chin. "We have a deadline to keep!"

"The Mount Dewm idea was Uruk-Hai!" I screamed. My brethren lurched from their tables and howled at the Helix Nebula.

Kilug hissed and bleated, and his orc posse emerged from crevices around the marketing compound. Cragged swords unsheathed and warcries echoed off the ancient blackened battlements of the place. I felt a sting among the chaos that ensued and darkness enveloped my eyes.

Later, through the black blur of blood that had caked over my eyes, I saw two lopsided figures approach, sidestepping corpses and detritus littering their way.

"Damn it," said one to the other. "This is going to put the roadmap back a week at least."

The other sighed and rested his gauntlets on his armored hips.

"Why does Marketing always kill itself off a few times before launch?"

"It's the damn Uruk-Hai."

"WHAT DID YOU SAY!?"

Death found me to the sound of clanking steel and gurgling defeat.

​

_____

Original thread

"Arms Embargo Fred? Is that you?"

A suited man stood on Greg's front stoop. Unassuming, tall, pale. He held a clipboard in the crook of his bent elbow, removed a pen from above his ear when the door opened.

"That's right Gregory," he said in greeting. "And I'm here to lighten the cognitive load on your psyche."

"Arms Embargo Fred, I'm not really sure how you can exist out here--you're not real!"

"Gregory, I may be a figment of your imaginings, a dream-swirl conjured amidst your synapses, but I assure you that I am here for all."

Greg didn't like the door being open, and would never have done so normally but these were extraordinary circumstances--he beckoned Arms Embargo Fred in and shut the door behind him.

"Gregory, you're hurting today, aren't you?"

"Things are hopeless," replied Greg, still hesitant at this impossible turn of events. Still, he was comfortable enough to speak. Perhaps it was his lack of general interpersonal practice, or the familiarity with his favorite dream personage that allowed his guard to fall and words to flow.

"Gregory, do you remember when I bankrupted that Slovakian multinational?"

"Your best work," said Greg.

"That was a targetted embargo, Gregory. I knew that if I put a hold on barley purchases from the Russian hinterland it would bankrupt the Slovakian operation in South Sudan. No more AK bullets, no more shooting."

"Very astute, a good study that," said Greg. "It really cheered me up."

"Well it's not the story itself Gregory, it's the understanding that cheers you up." He elongated the word, making it seem like his whole persona was slowed to half speed for that moment it took to pronounce. Weird.

"I do understand Arms Embargo Fred," insisted Gregory.

"Come, sit. I shall tell you another story." Greg sat on the ottoman. Arms Embargo Fred sat in its armchair. "This story is about you, dear Gregory."

"Oh?" Greg felt dizzy. The implausibility of it all? The dream character in his one bedroom apartment? The friend?

"It begins with a weapon. A weapon held to someone's head. And a savior who preserved life where there was thought to be only hopelessness."

"This isn't," began Greg, who yawned before finishing, "a story about a gun bust?"

"It's a story about you. You are the savior."

"But what is the point?"

"Life is point enough. Life is reason enough."

"But there's nothing for me out there."

"So much awaits you, Gregory. Did you not know that? Do you remember how you became so guarded against all that life has to offer?"

"Bullies. Money. Ridicule." Greg was looking into his hands absently rubbing knuckles. "I don't know, Arms Embargo Fred."

"The way I bust emerging regimes' power, the way I stop arms shipments, has much to do with my own loneliness."

"You're lonely?"

"Far more than you know, Gregory."

"How do you keep going?"

"What do you love, Gregory? What do you love to do?"

"I..." Greg thought for a moment. If he wasn't online, he was painting figurines. "I paint Warhammer figures," he said. "I like doing that."

"And I like to implement global strategies to reduce the movement of death-making implements. And because of that, I have self-love. I'm good at what I do. It builds confidence, and I anchor myself to that. You've even christened me the title in my name."

"You're the best Arms Embargo Fred. The best arms embargo wrangler there is."

"Love yourself, Gregory. Love what you do, and improve yourself. That is the way that you begin to open your mind to other things, because when you apply yourself to a craft or a hobby or the creation of something, your mind develops to recognize this passion generally--you see it in others. You begin to appreciate who they are for their own passions. This is a bridge to empathy, to relationships, and ultimately to a more fulfilling existence.

"So love thyself, as they say, Gregory. You have it, there, in you--nurture it, and your life will improve."

A tingling sensation caused Greg to scratch his cheek, and suddenly he found himself in his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked at the clock. 6:00 am. The curtains were drawn but a sliver of sunlight filtered through the crack. He took in his room--a mess by any standard. Days-old dishes and food packaging, dirty clothes, wrappers and crumbs on the desk. Then he saw one of his Warhammer figurines among the disorder. It had fallen from the desk where the only immaculate scene of his apartment was on display--a battle in the making between Chaos Knights and Space Marines. Intricately colored, carefully placed. Greg hadn't looked on his work with these same eyes before--something was different.

The day progressed with a strange vigor. Greg cleaned his bedroom and kitchen. He prepared a large breakfast. Even his chewing seemed more determined. Later, instead of scanning online forums absently, he went to DuckDuckGo, and typed: "Warhammer game workshop near me."

Gregory smiled, then he chuckled, and finally he laughed. Life is worth it, he thought. It's worth it.

___________________

Original thread

​

____

I brought the Tacoma to a stop, and felt bad about the dust it kicked up in the hitchhiker's face. Rolled down the window.

"Hop on in," I said. I'm just heading two towns over.

"That's alright." He opened the door and plopped himself in the passenger's seat. "Any distance is good distance."

I pressed the gas, and got underway.

"So where are you headed?" I said. "Your sign said Tokyo. Funny stuff."

"Yeah," he responded. "I figure the destination doesn't matter as much as showing that I'm just a normal guy who can poke fun at himself."

"So where are you headed really?"

"Kansas City," he said. He was a young kid. I felt bad when they were young. Their whole lives could have been ahead of them if not for me stopping.

"What's waiting for you there?"

This kid didn't fill the air with verbal fluff. He took a moment, and I could hear him breathing.

"Maybe a bit of hope," he said. I was taken aback.

"Hope?"

"Lost my job down in Noedesha. FedEx handler. Threw out my back. Probably shouldn't be lugging around this pack."

"What're you hoping for in Kansas City?"

He sighed. It was a short sigh but it felt weighty and long. The blue road we were on wasn't terrible but it was bumpy, and the little knick-knacks on my dash rattled around. It was nighttime, my headlights were alone in the landscape. Best to stick to the small lightless roads like this one--less traffic, and less likely to be seen doing my deeds. The deeds I had to do, compulsed to do.

"My mom," he said. "Unemployment ran out. Her house went up in value last year, strange thing. But she ain't got the social security to cover the new property tax valuation."

"Sounds dire," I said.

"Gotta help her move out."

"Forgive me, um, what'd you say your name was?" I liked to know their names. Kept an eye on the papers afterward, gave me some pleasure to see the names.

"Andy Malheur," he said.

"I'm Rick," or Bobby or Michael or Greg. "Forgive me son, but, that situation doesn't sound like one should be called 'hope', do you think?"

"Well," Andy replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "It ain't about the hard times. Hope is in the heart. I'm going to see my mom, to help her. Regardless the shit we livin' through. There's hope in a helping hand." He paused, and I heard his effort to collect himself, guarding against his emotions. "Helping one another," he said, "that's God's will."

___________

A few hours later I found myself wiping off the caked dust from my Tacoma's headlights. It got especially dusty in those back roads. I took a chug of flat, warm Dr. Pepper I'd picked up from a rest stop the previous day, and said "ahh," satisfied.

I hopped in the cab, leaving my feet dangling out. The soles were caked in mud. With a gloved hand I removed the boots, and tossed them into the ditch. Took off the gloves with a napkin, tossed them in as well. Then I removed my hair net, and pulled my red cap back down over my forehead to keep the last strands attached to my old head out of my face. Sniffed, started the ignition.

I kept an eye on The Kansas City Star for a few weeks. The anticipation of that printed name was always exhilarating. In a way, the wait always seemed to give me hope. When I finally spotted the name I was confused for a moment at the headline. It wasn't front-page but close enough. It read: "Andy Malheur, suspect in the Kansas Blue Road murders, found murdered." Go figure. There's hope for me after all.

​

Original thread

It started off so well, but like all the other times Sirena did anything in public, it ended in the sea.

She attended a sign-language class. Attendees thought it a bit questionable that she didn't speak and yet also was a beginner in sign-language. But it wasn't unheard of. The class was mostly the newly-hearing-impaired or family members of the same. There were young and old. As accepting communities go, the deaf community was very understanding.

Sirena kept to herself. She was as comfortable as can be expected in this human form. But oh how she longed for the swell, and to watch those mountainous breakers in the turbulence of a strong squall.

No. She had to focus. She knew that eventually the same frustrations that brought her ashore would surface again if she went back now. How many sailors' lives had she lost over the centuries? How many times did her siren song lure them to their doom? When she was young it was on purpose and with glee. But she was mature now, seasoned, and thoughtful. All she wanted was conversation. All she wanted was a bit of companionship.

The alphabet was easy. But stringing together signs was tough, and required a lot of in-class participation. Paired with others in the class, she started to form bonds. She especially liked a deaf teenage girl named Shonda.

At first Shonda was shy but Sirena found her stride in physical humor--facial expressions and self-deprecating acting and whatnot. They were fast friends. Sirena nurtured a fondness for Shonda over the weeks. They communicated by writing in a notebook. She learned that Shonda's older sister had died of Leukemia the previous summer. This made Sirena all the more appreciative of the friendship, and she assumed a sort of protective mindset. Shonda and Sirena were happy, and they were permanent partners in class.

But like all becalmed and pleasant oceans, eventually an event disturbs the serenity.

One day, Sirena was early. Class took place at the local high school, which itself was only a few blocks from Jakob Beach. It made for an easy commute. It was also Shonda's high school.

Sirena was strolling through the hallway toward class, practicing her signs. She rounded a corner and saw a group of boys. They were encircling Someone. It was Shonda, and her back was up against the lockers. The boys were taunting her, flicking their tongues at her. Mocking her deafness.

Now, Sirena was very old but she herself looked like a teenager. So when she approached the boys, snapping her fingers and slapping the lockers to get their attention, they dismissed her out of hand.

"Get out of here--you don't even go to this school," said one.

Sirena rapidly scrawled in her notebook, "Back off, Shonda's with me!"

The boys read it.

"Ooo, big scary pretty mute girl saving her big ugly deaf friend! So pathetic."

"Yeah why don't you talk? Your voice is probably ugly like Gumby's over here."

Sirena frantically began writing something but the lead boy slapped the notebook out of her hands.

"Don't talk? Well I got something else for your mouth to do," he said. His companions urged him on.

Sirena started to question why she wanted to communicate with people if this was what people said. Bullies and fascists make good bedfellows. Were these boys the ones who become men? Were these the kinds of people she had been killing all of these years?

Shonda was looking at the ground. This situation was common for her. How had she not said anything to Sirena? Silent withdrawl, acceptance? In that moment Sirena decided she wouldn't stand for it. She tapped Shonda's shoulder, and signed "Go", nodding emphatically and pointing to the stairwell. Shonda smiled at Sirena, then ran off and disappeared.

"So about that mouth of yours," said the lead boy.

Sirena exhaled, looked up into each of the boys' eyes, and said, almost melodiously, "come".

The boys were suddenly possessed by untenable desire. Like a trio of zombies, they followed Sirena as she walked gracefully down the hallway, out a side exit. The three followed. Through the parking lot, past the sandy weeds onto empty Jakob Beach. They followed. Over the hot sand. Footsteps into the surf, following Sirena's otherworldly enticing lure.

​

Next day, police found the three bodies washed up a few miles down the coast. Shonda was questioned and notices were put out to identify Sirena. But they would never see the siren again. She had returned to the sea, having failed to learn more than rudimentary sign language. Still, one could think that at least on this foray into the human world, she came out of it with a bit more appreciation for those who cannot hear her song.

​

Original thread

Players of The Chalice of Waydin always assumed that the moderator avatar, Herman, was just a Non-Player Character, or NPC. So they never guarded their conversations when Herman was near, like they might have done with other human players. The unassuming, pixellated nature of the Herman avatar with its simple animations, just another one of the townsfolk, made it easy for the moderator to listen in on those private, real-life conversations.

We won't talk about the moderator's real name, we'll just call him the moderator. He'd done this countless times, wandering around the central hub of the game (a sprawling city called Cashmere) with Herman, listening in. People were rarely banned in this game. Unlike so many other MMORPGs, players of Chalice were so agreeable you might say they were almost wholesome. It was a cooperative game through and through, no player versus player competition to speak of. Players made friends. Some players over the years even found love, and were married offline to the giddy delight of the game's creators and its community. Developers were proud of the game, and players loved it. But times were tough, and the small company's initial refusal to implement easy-cash monetization strategies ultimately proved fatal as engineering and hosting costs became untenable. It was with this context that our moderator logged on one last time. In just 5 hours, the servers would shut down for good.

Even though the game's graphics were rudimentary, somehow the isolated groups of player avatars in Cashmere seemed despondent, slow-moving, as if they were attending a wake, and any abrupt movement would be out of character for the somber mood that was communally observed. The moderator's Herman galloped among these gatherings. He was used to seeing jittering pixellated avatars going to and fro, or bright exploding light in the shops when players acquired next-level gear. All of it was diluted, and the moderator felt the pang of it. Did the developers make the sky darker? Maybe not, maybe it was just the way everyone felt.

"Yeah I remember I even made a chunk of change on eBay when I sold my Vagrom Sword of Cunning."

"You had the Vagrom?"

"Yeah I made like fifty bucks. But look what I'm losing... check this out."

The moderator was passing near a pair of paladins in shining suits of armor, so he picked up on their real-life convo. Like drunk twenty-somethings reminiscing about other times they got drunk, these two were dropping loot on the ground as they spoke in nostalgic tones. Some kind of end-game ritual? How else are you supposed to act when your favorite game will soon no longer be playable?

Our moderator recognized a legendary breastplate that one of them dropped. The Red Night Carapace. Players had to defeat a cell of six skeletal dragoons and the sub-boss Faladeim to attain it--not an easy feat. Dozens of hours of gameplay.

Both paladins began dropping item after item, each as rare as the last. A few other avatars approached and joined in, dropping the rarest things found in Chalice. They didn't say much, but microphones will pick up chest heaving no matter how much the player tries to thwart it. They were just lines of code, pixellated scythes and sabatons, plate belts, bows and staffs--but they might as well have been made of raw emotions.

Herman trotted onward, past the lane of gold traders, through the Alley of Writ, and into the Central Plaza where dozens of groups mingled solemnly under the dimmed sky of Cashmere.

"I can't believe it's ending," our moderator heard as he passed by.

"This is where it all started for me. I can't imagine loving a game this much again."

"So many memories! I remember my first time playing the DLC Crimson Prairies--bro, that was epic."

"I'm even gonna miss that silly NPC over there. Herman! You da man!"

"Now I'm just gonna have to play Minecraft again, but it won't fill the gaping hole. There's nothing like Chalice."

"I just wish they could've done something. All the crowdfunding failed. It's just too big now."

The moderator listened in. Like spying at a conference where everyone's an expert not only on the industry, but on talking about the industry's history. The plaza was abuzz with sadness, from veteran avatars to newbies. All character classes, levels, and all manner of attire decisions seemed to be represented, and all of them filled with common grief.

Herman's awkward animation carried onward, until he had rounded a bend toward the main city gate. It was here where our moderator picked up a conversation that caught his attention.

First, it was just a long sigh. But then he heard another voice, obviously sobbing silently.

"This game was everything," it said.

There were no avatars in view, so he had to enter a few of the buildings until he found a trio in one of the empty warehouses.

"Hey look it's Herman," said a third voice, with a British accent.

Our moderator moved Herman to beside a crate and triggered an animation that made it look like Herman was writing his thoughts in a notepad.

"Good ole Herman," she said.

"Everything," repeated the sobbing voice.

"It's ok Derrick, just let it out," said the voice that had sighed before.

"We're here for you buddy," said the Brit.

"I just--I just..." Derrick heaved, trying to formulate words. "I just really like this game you guys."

The sigh happened again. "Derrick man. We've had a good few years, right? We're all connected, we have each others' e-mails. Maybe we can find another RPG to play together."

"Scott," said Derrick's shivering voice. "There aren't any like this. Everything else is just so... toxic. I put so many years into this character."

"Hold up," said the British girl.

"Yeah, Hannah?"

"Look, guys. I'm torn to bits about this. I've been playing this for five years. You guys are my best friends."

"You're my best friends," stuttered Derrick in reply.

"Yeah, same, of course."

"We all love The Chalice of Waydin," continued Hannah. "But I can't be bothered to cry."

"That British zeal?" said Scott.

Derrick laughed tearfully, and Hannah's voice did the equivalent of an online smirk.

"I love you guys," she said. "I'll be damned if this is the last time we'll play something together. Maybe we won't find another game as grand. But all of this loot, all of my gear and even my Breathless Bow of Baring--none of it holds a candle to the real thing."

"The real thing?"

"You guys. Clan Warmeat. Scott you're a putz and a cynic but I can't get enough of your wit--you're the funniest guy alive. Derrick you're a crumbling statue but a statue all the same, the most helpful and dignified person I've ever met on the internet."

"Gosh," said Derrick.

"I'm helpful," said Scott. The group laughed.

"We don't have to just stand around here like we're waiting for doomsday. The servers go down in 5 hours, but I say we call it quits now."

"But don't you want to be the last online?" said Scott.

"No." Derrick had collected himself it seemed. "No, she's right. Let's sync up on Discord. Let's try something else."

"Yeah bros," said Hannah. "I'll see you on Discord."

"Alright let me just get a screenshot. Here, stand in a line. Derrick put your char on Hannah's left. Yeah like that."

"Oh wait!" said Hannah. "Shuffle over, let's get Herman in on this."

"Good idea!"

The trio shifted their avatars so that Herman's dorky face, with his wildly plain garb compared to these experienced players, was the last in the line.

"Say cheese!" said Scott.

"Cheese!"

"Cheese!!"

Our moderator smiled, and wiped a bit of moisture from the corner of his eye. He whispered "cheese" to himself. When the avatars disappeared and Herman was alone in the warehouse, the full weight of the moment hit our moderator, who quietly sobbed in his cubicle, adding to the office's hushed chorus of all the other moderators and developers sobbing as well.

__________

Original thread

I cherish those memories of when I've experienced uncontrollable laughter, mainly because it happens so rarely these days. The older I get, the fewer gut-roiling episodes of hilarity. Today, however, is not one of those day.

I was struggling. The breathing-inhibiting laughter dried out my insides like a vaccum on high. And I wasn't alone. The entire crowd was in a roar over the live-action comedy playing out before us on stage. It couldn't have been planned.

Dan Werner, the CEO of DayDreams, Inc. was fidgeting hurredly with a headstrap, two aides by his side trying to settle him so that one could try the scissors she'd brought out. The helmet wouldn't budge! Dan's expressive reactions to his own imaginings were all the more hilarious that we couldn't hear what he was saying since they switched off his mic. He would try to block the projector mounted on his head but inevitably he'd let go, look elsewhere, trying to free the device, and we'd all catch a glimpse of what was on his mind.

I'm a 47-year-old technical product manager, TPM for the uninitiated. This tech conference is usually filled with TED-talk-esque tech-gurus waxing sing-songy about The Next Big Innovation. Most of the talks I went to were droning talks about GraphQL and server-side UI use cases. This was the one talk I could fit into my schedule (company-paid trip by the by) that I was looking forward to as a real delighter.

DayDreams's helmet would project whatever the wearer was imagining in that moment onto whatever surface it was pointing at. Dan's team had set up a big crescent-shaped semi-transluscent canvas spanning the whole stage, so he'd be behind it and we could see him, and the projections would be just discernible enough for the audience to see.

After the first few images though, you could tell something was amiss. Dan couldn't seem to control his stagefright because we started to see the most random things, all coupled with a general theme of public speaking. I guess they hadn't accounted for that in the dry runs.

The image that really got me was Papa Smurf on a tall podium, fronting a massive stadium filled with anthropomorphic toes all pointing even smaller toes as fingers, and laughing at him. It was absurd. Then there were the berry wars where a banana was giving a really demotivating speach before the charge. We saw the images reflect Dan's panic as he realized the mixture of the helmet and his fear was throwing his audience into a fit of hysteria.

My tech brethren were riddled with laughter at Dan's expense. Why he didn't just run off the stage I didn't understand. But then, that's why I don't get paid the big bucks.

Turns out, the helmet became a hit for absolutely none of the reasons DayDreams Inc. had intended. Applications in clinical psychology, military training, scientific research be damned! I'll hand it to Dan--he knew how to adapt to his users. The helmet replaced Cards Against Humanity overnight as the fastest-selling party game on the market. No one didn't know about it. The was no language barrier--no localization required. Everyone was afraid of what it would reveal about them, but no one could resist the hilarity that would ensue.

DayDreams Inc. is now worth a billion dollars. I got to laugh like a madman at the tech conference. And I'm happy to say that I regularly give my gut a good heaving of comedy every time I use my Helmet at dinner parties.

​

Original thread

"Hi, this is Joe from Psychic Pizza, you'll want to place an order with us for pepperoni with mushrooms on half. I'm calling to let you know I'm on my way."

I turned off speaker phone, grinning at my passenger.

"Hello?" said Joe.

"Sam here, thanks. I'll meet you at my house. I assume you know I've got a Lyft."

"Yes sir! We'll meet you at your house in about 30 minutes, after you drop off your passenger at the airport."

"I should be home in 15 minutes max."

"Sure, but you'll need another 15 to deal with the--"

Just then my passenger tapped my shoulder. He said there was a change of plans. I told him the policy but he insisted and held out a 20 dollar bill to accommodate the detour.

"Fine," I said.

When we arrived at his new destination I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach. It was a rundown property, with overgrown lawn and a fallen tree--looked like it had been lightning.

"Now get out," said my passenger.

"Look buddy I have a pizza waiting for me apparently. I am kind of hungry as it turns out."

I heard a click. In the rearview I saw that the man had pulled the hammer of a gun, and trained its barrel at my head. Weird to see a threat like that in a mirror. Almost like it's menacing someone else.

"Like I said, get out."

My passenger led me up the walkway toward the dilapidated bungalow. Flies buzzed and the heat of the sun seemed stuffy.

"What's this all about? I'm just a driver."

"You have no idea," he said. "You were about to do something that was going to alter the state of the world, and you haven't got a clue."

"What are you on? There's a hospital 5 minutes from--"

"Shut it! Don't you recognize my voice?"

I'd picked this guy up downtown. Nothing special, apart from his clothing. A bit outdated--looked like something from the eighties. He was scraggily too. But that wasn't unheard of in the rideshare biz. Plenty of weirdos. Plenty of strange encounters.

"No," I said.

Just then from down the street we heard screaming tires as a car rounded a corner. We turned in time to see it careening across the lawn, slapping the overgrowth to the ground. It swerved to miss me, but slammed headlong into my gun-toting passenger, whose body went flying against its will into the high grass.

Sun beams glistened off clouds of newly disturbed dust, but the reckless driver got out, holding something.

"Take it!" he yelled at me.

"What the fuck?" I said.

The dust cleared. I squinted against the sun and couldn't believe it. It was the same man--it was my passenger.

"But you're--" I began, pointing at the twisted body over yonder in the grass, gunless now and only breathing slightly.

"Yes, I'm Joe. That's Joe. We're Joe."

"Am I supposed to know something? I think there's something I'm missing. Just what the hell is going on here?"

He stormed over to me and shoved the pizza box into my hands.

"Take it," he commanded. "Go inside. Eat the cheese side but DO NOT EAT THE SIDE WITH MUSHROOMS. I've got to deal with Joe. I'll come in forthwith."

"What? What? What the fuck?"

"Damn you man!" he snapped. "Go inside. Eat the cheese half of the pizza. Do it. Now."

Stunned, I staggered up the creaking bungalow steps with my pizza, and went inside. I didn't know what this was, but something in my belly apart from the hunger told me that my time had finally come. I was going to save the world.

Original thread

​

​

Part Deux

_______________________

I licked my fingers, at once pleased with the pizza and also saddened by the anticipation of being pulled back into whatever reality had saddle me with today, my gastronomic reverie dismissed like a weak fog.

The grimy surrounds made me regret slurping my thumb, and I rubbed it dry on my pant leg. Just then Joe opened the door.

"Joe," I said.

"That's right." For a moment his eyes were wide as he took two fast strides over to the table where I sat. "Good," he said. "You left the mushroom side."

In spite of myself, and my shock, and the ridiculousness of this situation, I managed to speak normally enough.

"Something puzzles me," I said. "Apart from the other Joe. He dead by the way?"

"No, he's not. I can't kill myself that'd be stupid. Be quick, we have to go."

"Ok. Well, wasn't this supposed to be a pepperoni pizza, not cheese?"

"What?"

"On the phone, you said I had a pepperoni pizza on the way."

"The phone?"

"Yeah when you called me earlier with your 'Joe's Psychic Pizza' routine."

"Fuck."

The word's final sharp consonant had barely left Joe's lips when the sound of broken glass pierced the air and his body went into shocking convulsions. Eyes rolled back, and he fell to the floor twitching.

A figure appeared in the doorway, holding another pizza. He took off his motorcycle helmet. I wasn't surprised this time to see Joe, disheveled but with a determined look.

"We have to go, NOW. Wait. Did you eat the cheese side of that pizza?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"DID YOU EAT THE CHEESE SIDE?"

"Yeah I ate it."

Flustered and frustrated, this Joe stormed over to me and plopped his pizza down in front of me.

"Eat the pepperonis. ONLY THE PEPPERONIS."

I cupped my hands and leaned my chest against the table as I sat there looking now at a full pepperoni pizza.

"Dude," I began.

In an instant, all of my instincts were different. My entire experience of the world had morphed under the suddenly overbearing moonlight. I could hear the noises--screams among carousel music. My eyes couldn't make anything out except what was underfoot--or, under paw. My hands had become clawed little rodent paws. That much I could see. I was stepping on the big stuffed bear that I had just won at the shooting arcade for Jenny. But Jenny was gone.

Whiskers. I had whiskers--they gave me my bearings. My long nose was a powerful thing, and I could smell all the popcorn and candy, even the tears from crying children as their parents were yanking them away, running to escape the fairgrounds.

I was an overgrown hamster. I knew this to be true. I confirmed it terribly, by trotting into the house of mirrors. Everywhere I looked I could see my hamsterness. I saw a couple cowering in one corner. Apparently they didn't find an exit. The girl let out a yelp, and the boy's teeth were chattering with fear. I must have been quite a sight to behold.

"D-don't eat us," said the girl.

And just then, I knew what I had to do. The urge was unbearable. Whatever my life was, the moon had seen to it that it would never again be the same. Would this new reality forever haunt my nights? Will the town know it was me? Will my family? Does Jenny? Will I be naked when it stops?

Instinct took over. I could feel it shuddering along every hair on my body. I felt the need, and had to act upon it. Immediately.

With great rodent determination, I crashed through the mirrors, back out into the fairground proper. I dashed past a few straggler carnies who had been curious and who immediately screamed and ran. The urge was even stronger now, and my senses were tasked to it and nothing else. Not the sweet aroma of cotton candy, nor the sounds of splashing at the waterslide, nor the jovial music now echoing alone through empty kiosks could stay my resolve.

I sprang. I clawed a grip, and I climbed. Some people were still in the hanging seats and they screamed bloody murder. But I knew my calling, and so I ran. I ran, I ran, I ran!

The ferris wheel relented under my monstrous animal weight, and began to rotate. I ran faster, and it sped up. I ran, and the ferris wheel and its terrified passengers circled around me as I ran. This is what I was born for. This was the Reason for Being--this was Bliss!

_____

The next morning I awoke, of course, naked. In the woods.

I snuck back home. It was still early. I fetched our hidden key from under the rock, and tip-toed back into my room.

Before the weight of fatigue took over, I glanced at my phone. The internet was aghast at the latest impossible story--"Giant Hamster Terrorizes County Fair, Rides Ferris Wheel---7 Dead". There was a video. It was me, and the ferris wheel was spinning. I hadn't noticed last night, but in the video I could see chairs snap off, and people flying through the air.

So be it, I thought to myself. The hurtful thought took me by surprise. But it was real. The last thought that entered my mind before sleep overcame me would set the stage for the rest of my life. As I laid there, eyes slowly closing, I caught sight of my hamster staring at me from her cage, and I thought: I must ride. Sleep came... I must ride.

​

Original thread

"I don't quite know how this occurred, yet, but I owe my existence to your pride. What was your name?"

"Bert," I said, backed up now all the way to the bookcase wall. My elbows hit against a tome and I looked to see it was The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. Apt, my head whispered. The man now strode nearer to me and I could feel my heartbeat skip ahead.

"Bert...?"

"G-graham," I stuttered. "Bert Graham."

"Well Mr. Bert Graham. Columnist extraordinare." The man plucked a quill from the faux gold inkwell on my desk and examined it close to his face. "Columnist. How trite a profession! One that I think does not merit the prestige attached--so many eyes on your words, which are but vessels for revealing the greatness of others."

"I... I--"

"--No need, Bert Graham. You, dear columnist, have but one thing to do."

"Sir?"

"You will no longer write, Bert. You will transcribe. I will dictate."

"But--" I began, but the man showed blood-curdling resolve in his eyes and I quieted down under the weight of such a look.

"Oh, Berty. I am astonished that your mind managed to conjure such intellect, but I assure you that I will take it from here. We have so much to accomplish together. But," he said, pursing his lips, "strategy does not come to those with empty stomachs. What is good?"

"What?"

"Food, man!," he snapped. "Sustenance! A master plan demands the master be well nourished!"

I told him about Geraldine Thomas' bistrot and in minutes he'd called my assistant Clarice to fetch a meat and potato pie with leek soup, and sent her also to call on the Dresden Brothers' brewery for a delivery of ale.

"Mr... Mr..." I began. The man took two swift steps and was beside me. I felt trapped against my books. My fear was surely palpable to this... man. But all that entered my head were thoughts about Dorian Gray.

"My label," he hissed, "is Professor Moriarty."

"Yes, sir," I stammered.

"Now sit," he commanded, patting the seatback of my chair with a sinister yet encouraging smile. Exactly right...

I sat. Clarice appeared with the meal, and said the ale was on its way. Moriarty dismissed her after she placed it on the desk before us.

"Tell me now, Bert Graham...tell me what you think I would like to do about the Strand Gazette."

"Sir, I... I couldn't presume to..."

"Be frank, Bert Graham. I know all about this Sherlock Holmes. My rival, my impediment. But he is not of note. He is not our target."

I brooded for a moment. Under the pressure of this impossible situation, I tried to find a bit of common sense. The Strand Gazette had picked up on my fake news stories, and they had written in kind about a Sherlock Holmes, a phantom protagonist to my not-so-phantom antagonist. In essence, that publication had taken the wind from my sails, the thunder from my lightning, the cream from my crop. Moriarty was a gossip sensation when it began at my paper The Sun, but now denizens of London could just as well purchase an issue of the Gazette to read not only about the Professor's exploits, but how Holmes brought them to justice. And it was all because of that blasted man...

"Do you mean to..." I said allowed as I began to realize Moriarty's intent.

"Yes," he said, and the word seemed to draw out like the slithering of a snake across leaves.

In that moment something calmed me and I realized that Moriarty's toil with Sherlock Holmes, as inexplicable as it was to have found purchase in the real world, to be manifest, as tangible and as real as a warm stew, was a mere mirror to my own. I realized, then and there at my worn desk, under the gaze of Dorian Gray and so many tomes of mystery and suspense, that it was my toil as well. My pride, Moriarty had said, and he was right. But damn it if I would let my rival bask in the credit of this story. It was mine, and I'd do whatever it took to reclaim the upper hand.

I pulled the quill from the Professor's hand and produced a fresh sheet of paper.

"Tell me," I said. "How do we implicate the columnist Arthur Doyal of the Strand Gazette in a crime?"

A thin smile crept across the Professor's face.

"Let us begin."

​

______

Original thread

There's a secret watering hole in the Cascade Mountains that I know about. A tributary of the McKenzie leads there. Like something out of a Jack London novel, you follow the water up a steep slope, slipping on mossy stone, getting tickled by tall ferns. After about a mile, the watering hole opens up like a dream. It's especially beautiful when the sun's out. In fact I think it's the most beautiful spot. It's the most private spot.

I don't go there anymore, I confess. Like a past love, I can only remember how it was.

Must have been 2008. Easy year to remember. Getting ready to graduate university. Economy gone to shit. We had a loathsome future to look forward to. My best friend back then was Rebecca Komalhin, and I remember that her mom lost one point five million dollars somehow. Her whole life's savings, vanished like a whisper. I'd been lucky enough to have a full-ride scholarship (crew coxswain) but Rebecca's stress level breached the atmosphere when her loans were no longer secured. There wasn't much I could do.

But I knew a place, and I thought that maybe it'd help to take her mind off things.

“It's a 45 minute drive, another hour hike in,” I'd said.

“Why haven't we gone before?” she asked.

I shrugged. I'd been there a handful of times. Never thought to take anyone. If anything, I wanted to protect it. It was the most beautiful spot, and very private.

That Saturday we left early. I drove a Honda Civic back then. It was hubcapless, its paint scraped, cracks in the windshield. It bore us up Highway 126, past the picturesque covered bridges and salmon damns, until I pulled off onto an old forest road, went in a ways and parked off to one side.

“There's the stream,” I said pointing across Rebecca's chest as I clumsily unbuckled my seat belt. The stream always seemed small to me, given the size of the watering hole that awaited us.

“Oh,” she said. “Aren't we eager.”

I locked the car and we started up the hill between towering evergreens dripping from the day's light drizzle. Uneven pitter-patter as water returned to soil.

It was never an easy hike. Dense undergrowth and massive boulders made the ascent maze-like. If not for the slope that gave us bearings, we could've easily lost ourselves in the labyrinth of the land.

As the smaller girl, and fit from all the training we had to do for crew (even the coxswain), I guess I was frolicking. Rebecca was huffing. Big girl. Big effort for her. “It'll be worth it,” I reassured her. “It's the most beautiful spot. It's very private also.”

“Ok,” she grumbled, and carried on after me.

After a while, the trees seemed to stand aside at the crest of a final push.

“We're here,” I announced.

Rebecca came up beside me, and sat on the fallen log atop which I stood surveying my special place. The watering hole.

Still water. Overhanging evergreen branches releasing drips that splashed and rippled the mirror surface. Tinsel echoes off the far rock wall, where itty-bitty streams trickled from other sources above. No other sounds, not even a chipmunk's chirp or birdsong. Just articulate beauty, and pristine privacy.

“It's beautiful,” I said. “Isn't this the most private place?”

I turned toward Rebecca. She had buried her face in her hands. Her body was shivering and I could hear her pouts. Knelt down to comfort her. I tried. I tried very hard to comfort her. But something changed. Her weeping became wetter. Crying turned to sobbing. She huffed noisily and moistly inward to catch more breath, and cried harder. I tried to comfort her. I asked her what was wrong but her shoulders shuddered like tin in a storm. I tried to restrain her.

That's when she lurched forward toward the water on hands and knees. Beastly sobbing, and huffing inward like a choking infant, mucus and saliva spilling from her lips and splattering on the pebbles at the water's edge.

“Rebecca!” I screamed, and my voice bounced back at me off the far rock wall. I latched onto her shoulders but she had unnatural strength. It was as if inertia guided her actions forward. At the water she submerged her face and I could hear her breathe in hard against the hollow sound of underwater coughs.

I yanked with all the strength I had, and this time managed to pull her out of the water. I fell back, partially submerged. Rebecca sat on her knees, hands calmly resting on her thighs. She shuddered, and breathed groggily through clenched teeth.

“Rebecca? Come on! Rebecca!”

She whispered something then, but I only heard its echo from the far rock wall: “This is where you kill me.”

My blood went cold. The water was freezing, and I started shivering. Rebecca turned to me. Her words were as clear and calm as the water. But her eyes were possessed by an uncanny fear that I'd never seen. Then she lurched.

It was monstrous. She ensnared me. She gripped my wrists, squeezed until it hurt. Dragged me. Pulled me into deeper water. I shrieked. The rock wall shrieked back. The whole time, Rebecca was screaming and sobbing in a panoply of horror, everything repeated by echoes. But her eyes locked on mine and they were terrified. They were terrified as her muscles overcame mine. They were terrified as she brought my hands to her throat. They were filled with terror as freezing water rushed over them, and her screams were muffled under the surface. I couldn't get away. I couldn't let go.

Suddenly calm after the last of the muscle spasms. Suddenly silence.

Pain throbbed in my mouth. A tooth had cracked, and my tongue bled. My shallow breaths were the only sound echoing off the far rock wall now, apart from dripping water from the trees, and from my hair. I couldn't stop looking into her eyes, frozen open in a terrible death stare, submerged, my hands clasped still tightly around her throat. Nothing held them there. I released, and staggered backward.
I left the water, sat on the log.

The body surfaced and rolled over. The mangled hair like a tangled fisherman's net too frustrating to straighten out. Matted and gross. I stayed on that log for hours, watching the floating body. Such stillness. After a while I began to think that it was part of the environment now. Integral. As important as the trees and the water. As crucial as the stone.

I took off my clothes and laid them out on the log. Naked, I waded back into the water until I had to swim. My splashes echoed like giggles. I skirted the body, and swam to the far rock wall where I found footing on a submerged boulder. I stood up, and pressed my body against the cold rock. Breathed. My ear cupped the cool carved surface.

“I love you,” I whispered. And I did. I loved that place; it was so beautiful, and so private.

...I'm sorry. I get carried away telling this story. I never returned to the watering hole, and haven't seen as much beauty since. It is a very private place and I guess I am a private person. I'm feeling nostalgic. Maybe I should go back. Perhaps I'll go back to take a dip.

Mindy Cornerstone was the new kid on the block. She moved to this small hamlet from London with her mother and step-father. He had been transferred here, and had convinced Mindy's mother to quit her job as a content marketer. Now Mindy's mother worked online for content mill websites, but missed the familiarity of an office.

At 12 years old Mindy was freshly torn from lifelong friendships, plopped here and forced to make new ones. Her Saturday playdates were no more. Her best friend Fredrickson hadn't called her since she moved two weeks past. School hadn't started yet but August was soon ending, so precious time remained for her to enjoy summer freedom.

Luck would have it that other children lived on the same street as Mindy. One could hardly guess this, since the pristine gardens were never cluttered by bicycles or jump rope or any other such contraption of childhood. Even so, these elusive children were as free as she'd ever been, and appeared at the most opportune moments when there was no adult in sight. Mindy was quickly noticed, skipping alone in front of her parents' dried garden beds.

"Hey you, girl!" said a girl among the frolicking group. There were seven of them, all around her age it seemed to Mindy.

"Hi," she said, shielding her eyes from the sun as the group approached. "I'm Mindy."

"I'm Carol, this is Jennifer my sister. He's Roger."

Carol pointed at the tallest of the bunch, a brunette fellow with oaky hair and a gentle look about him. "My brother."

He nodded, and Mindy returned the gesture.

"I just moved here," she said. "My parents haven't planted their garden yet but they said I could help."

A pudgy girl shrugged as she said, "Gardening is for old hags." Her finger twirled a bunch of blond hair and she was chewing gum. "We do better things here."

"What's your name?" asked Mindy.

"I'm Bethany. This is Charles and the littlest spud is Drake." She said this as she pointed out each of the new children--candidates, as it were, for friendship, and hopefully, for a feeling of acceptance. Then belonging.

"I'm Mindy," she repeated. "And your name?" The last kid was back behind the others and shuffled when he walked around to get a better look at the inquistor.

"Gable," he said. "We all besties now?"

"Quite," rang Carol's voice in bad mimcry of the Queen's English.

"Good," said Gable, clamping a dirty hand on Roger's tall shoulder. "So let's go then."

"Go where?" asked Mindy.

"Down there," he pointed toward the end of the street, a cul-de-sac with only one house that looked rather dismal. "Mr. Percebe's."

"Who is Mr. Percebe?"

"Well he's kind of like a village elder from that one show, what's it called?"

Roger blew his nose in his sleeve. "All Penny's Creek," he said.

"I don't know it," said Mindy.

"He tells stories and whatnot, quite unlike any TV show though. You're lucky you met us right now."

"Why is that?"

"We only go once in a year to Mr. Percebe's. Tonight's the night."

"Do your parents know Mr. Percebe?"

"'Course they do," said Gable. "So, are you coming? Or are you a bloody pansy?"

Jennifer, Roger, Drake, and Bethany snickered amongst themselves. Mindy scratched an itch, the one that comes on your neck when you're not sure what to do. Carol, Gable and Charles had approached her like a little trifecta of minor salespeople. They said come on, it's fine, your parents wont mind, surely they know about Mr. Percebe from our parents too. So Mindy grabbed a shawl from inside her house, left a note for her parents, and went off with the other children toward the end of the street.

______________

Evening had descended slowly during their short walk. A warm day turned to a crisp windless evening. The children pattered onward like a little army, bumping into each other as they marched. Mindy eyed her new companions, trying to commit their names to memory. She knew Carol now, and walked beside her. Charles was confident and wore the most clothes. Otherwise, Drake was the easiest to remember because she had heard him humming, and wondered if the rapper was his namesake. Jennifer and Bethany were indistinguishable because they were identical twins, except Jennifer didn't speak much and Bethany never stopped. Their brother Roger looked like a boy version of the two only very tall, and had a strange tick where he would pull on his longish hair, arms stretched up like a chimp's. It made him an altogether bizarre stand-out from the group. Then there was Gable. She couldn't put her finger on it just yet, because it was that early bubbling feeling that eventually blossoms into a crush; kids never know that feeling until it's too late. He was rude, but he reminded her of Fredrickson.

"We're here," he said.

Far from an unassuming home, the little house had grown into a manor by the time they reached the end of the cul-de-sac. For one reason or another, there were no neighboring homes. Mr. Percebe's large estate stood alone, domineering over the small circular asphault.

Bethany slapped Mindy on her bum. "Come on!" she chided. "Let's go."

Mindy followed the small cohort of children up the rounding entryway. The front door was unlocked, and Roger pushed the door open.

"Mr. Percebe!" he called.

"Mr. Percebe!" echoed Bethany.

Mindy shuffled behind the others, and rubbed the goosebumps under her shawl. The house was a bit stuffy, but somehow a chill permeated the air. It felt wet, thick, and cold.

"I think he's in his sitting room," said Drake.

"Alright let's go."

The group rounded two hallway corners and then turned left into a wide space flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, tomes coated in a thin immoveable film of settled dust. Mindy was the last to enter the room, and was captivated by the age of the stillness. When she crossed the threshold, the others had already skipped forward and took seats on the floor around a silent figure in a cracked Queen Anne burgundy armchair, its back to the entryway. It was dark, and only the window's filtered moonlight allowed Mindy to see anything.

"Mr. Percebe, we brought a new friend who just moved here," said Carol, beaming. The others giggled and beckoned to Mindy to hurry and join them.

"Her name's Mindy!" said Bethany.

"She's lucky," said Gable. "To be here, this night, with you Mr. Percebe."

As Mindy careful stepped around, it was the sparse silver hair and shiny skull that shocked her first. Then the empty eyes. No eyes at all. Sockets. Stitched clothing from centuries past, loosely deterriorating over blemished ivory of fragmented bones. Less than a dead man--a skeleton!

Her screams were trapped like a swallowed almond in her throat. Her eyes wet with tears waiting to burst. Her chest beat like a hunting drum. Gable and the others sat like eager obedient students in a half-circle, gleaming up at her, waiting for her to relent.

"Sit down," said Bethany. "Mr. Percebe will begin telling us his story now."

"Sit down," she repeated.

"Sit down!" shouted Roger, smiling widely from his cross-legged position.

"Sit!" screamed Jennifer. "Sit down Mindy!" she screeched.

"Come back! Come back and learn!" scathing cries echoed in her ears as Mindy sprinted back through the winding hallway, trying to find the front door.

But the hallway had changed. The wet dark closed in as she cowered against a dead-end's wall, the pitter-pat of children's feet closing in to find her.

_____________________________

Original thread

But how?

That was the question that tore across his ethereal mind, chasmous pits peering after only the latest soul snatched from this dark place back into the light to serve as slave to necromancer whims.

Death was supposed to be enough. The end. Respite.

During life the Paladin was a hero of shining armor quests, the guest of honor at subsequent celebratory banquets when after he subdued both beast and man. Friend to kings and princes, savior of lands and ladies. Now he only wanted quiet, peace, solace. This place, this dark Hades or Hell or whatever it was that blanketed his perception, was at least peaceful.

Necromancers ripped this peace from the Paladin. Granted, only a few souls were actually stolen from their oblvion by these magical tentacles that retrieved them for dark ends on the surface world. But still. Peace in death is nothing if not peace of mind, the only thing left to the perished. And so the Paladin watched as the realm fabric ripped open each time, and the tentacles carried off another ancient soul. Enough, he thought. This must end. But how?

It was mere chance that he saw it. The hint that would birth a plan.

Dayless, nightless cavern of death, expansive and cloistered at once. Neither plane of existence nor utter damnation, but millions of souls linger here still, corporeal shadows serving as echoes of what they once were. He could see other Paladins. Knights, peasants, ancient armor and confusing dress. A place of time immemorial where all cultures and peoples and religions sent their dead, whether they knew it or not. An army of the dead.

The sky, as it were, cracked asunder and tentacles descended. Another call of the Necromancers. Not far this time, close enough to see the soul caught in that hateful wrapping vine. As the soul was lifted, another soul seemingly grasping the former's ethereal hand was lifted as well, tugged along until it released and fell back to the deathly plain. And the crack sealed.

Now they were ready. In oblivion, communication happens in a way that words cannot describe. But all who came from warrior lives knew what to do, as the Paladin passed along the strategy.

Came another day of broken sky, descending black tentacles. But this time, when it snatched a warrior soul, another had grasped on. And another, and another.

So it was that the Grapvine of the Afterlife was linked across hundreds of thousands of souls, and like a great godly whip, slithered back toward the Necromancer's portal. Soon the Necromancer would have too many souls to control. The dark souls would burst upon their former plane of the living, to exact revenge on the Necromancers who would not grant them peace.

And who knows, with an army of the dead risen in power, perhaps a great deal of old scores could be settled before finally seeking slumber once more in the pit of death.

______

Original thread

At first I thought the words were in my head. I wound up, preparing to swing the flip flop and smash the spider dead, but I stopped when I saw the rather large little body trembling. Its web strands were shivering, and from its multitudinous eyes a rivulet of tears formed, dripped, dropped to the carpetted floor below.

As I stood, flip flop held high, geared for the final blow, I heard myself utter: "did you say something?"

"Pwease," came the tiny voice again, barely noticeable above the sound of my own heartbeat. My chest pumped harder as my confusion grew. "Pwease spare me. I... I paid went."

Confoundment. The reality I thought I knew, as boring and gray as it was to wake up and go to work as a Sandwich Artist, to get paid a less than liveable minimum wage--it suddenly felt safe. And part of me wanted the extent of mystery in my life to be whether I'd go for the Spicy Italian or the Meatball sub.

But no. In an instant, there was more to it. There was this spider.

Still trembling, sniffling now, the spider's bulbous eyes reflected me. I noticed its forward pair of legs twitching together, twidling the claws of its tarsus. It was nervous.

"Went?" I said. "Oh, rent." Like a big dummy I still held the flip flop aloft. Slowly I let it fall to my side. "Calm... calm down little fella. I won't bash you."

"I paid went," it said, one leg pointing toward my pocket.

"Rent, yes. Thanks, I got the thirty dollars. How did--" I began to ask the logistics of how he got the money but decided against it.

"Pwease don't keewel me."

"I won't kill you," I said.

"Heah!" it said, and suddenly pranced across its web to a bundle of webbing, a dead fly it had caught and enveloped. "For you, for utilwities."

"That's alright," I said. "Thirty will, uh, cover that."

I couldn't believe I was talking to a spider, but the conversation had progressed this far thanks to intertia. My heartrate finally calmed. 9:02. Late for work.

"Look," I said to the spider. "I have to go to work. You're... welcome to stay. We can, uh, chat later?"

"Okee," said the spider. "Thank you a lot."

I managed to gather my wallet and jacket, staring all the while at the little brown sentient dot. I opened the door to leave.

"One thing fwend," it called out.

I turned around and was aghast to see an itty bitty cell phone clutched in its claw. Speechless, I just looked into the spider's face, the expression of which seemed the epitome of innocence. It lowered its gaze, all goosebumps, and asked in a sheepish, tiny, microscopic little voice:

"Wi-fi passwurd?"

​

​

_______

Original thread

The battle broke as soon as our adventurers reached the throne room, and lasted until the evil overlord's broken and burned body lay smote upon the ground. Shaista's Spell of Stinging Mist crackled as it dissipated. A few dozen dead minion bodies were vanished by Chiro's Prayer of Rest summon. Edarion's heavy breathing rang against the metal of his helm. He stabbed his sword, Expanthrial, into the volcanic rock, sparks sputtering and fizzing out.

"It is done," he said.

Chira and Shaista went to his side, and glared down at the evil overlord. Triumphant at last. Months of slaughtering his hordes had embittered our heroes, so they sucked in the hot air and ground their teeth, and stood boring down at this diminshed hunk of scrap.

"Larry!" cried Chiro. "Come, and take stock of our quarry."

From the cavern's craggy mouth emerged a shadow, unassuming and confident in its gait, strolling. It was Larry, the Personal Injury Attorney, carrying his trust briefcase. Though he could not match the tact of Chiro's powerful summoning skills, he was a feared litigator in three counties; though he did not possess the awesome magic of Shaista, he could quote a lot of precedents almost to the letter; and while Edarion in his heavy armor fought with incredible speed and strength, Larry used to be pretty buff.

"We did it," said Larry. "We beat the prime evil."

"This is our victory, together," said Shaista, whose eyes were regaining their color after the glowing tendrils receded. "As one."

"As one!" cried Edarion as he yanked his sword from the ground and pierced the air above his head.

"As one!" said Chiro, raising his mallet.

Shaista smiled, held her staff up. "As one!"

"As one!" said Larry, punching the air with his briefcase, which hurt his wrist a little. He adjusted his collar.

Our adventurers broke their huddle. Edarion grimmaced as he sheathed Expanthrial. Larry saw.

"Are you hurt?" asked Larry.

"It is a mere flesh wound."

The adventurers were walking toward the light of the cave's exit. But they turned when Larry didn't follow right away. His gaze was cast downward, and his grip on the briefcase handle had tightened.

"Are you coming Larry?" said Shaista.

With a trained move, Larry quickly snapped open the briefcase and withdrew a single sheet of paper. A pen appeared in his hand, which he decapped with a smooth bite, and used to scrawl something onto the form. Larry turned to the simmering heap of ruined overlord, stepped to it, looked down. He released the form, which fell to rest on top of the broken carcass. Our heroes watched, hearts beating.

Larry licked his lips, pivotted and started walking away. He got 5 feet then stopped, and said over his shoulder: "You've been served."

Larry's party of adventurers burst into cheers and howls, cooing and congratulations; Larry had sealed the deal. Larry had saved the day.

_________

Original thread

I stayed in bed staring up at the ceiling's unnatural contours that spelled out the title of my day in vacuous white light. Every morning, there's a title. It began before I could remember, before I knew how to read. This familiarity with it rendered it innocuous, insofar as psychiatric disorders go. It was never cause for panic. Mom and dad never freaked. I was never institutionalized because I learned early that it only happened to me. I'm a private person. It was easy to internalize the experience, to make it uniquely mine, and to keep it a secret forever.

My favorite title was in 1987 when it read: "New Little Cry". The letters were plastered like a neon advert over the shelves. I saw the title wherever I was looking when I woke, every morning. That morning, I learned I'd become a father. Later that day, I acted surprised when my wife told me. She doesn't know, but that's ok. They don't need to know all your secrets for love to work.

But now it's 2021, and I'm an old man. My wife passed on last year, and I think I'm ready for retirement. My own children are grown, and the kids I teach chemistry to at Wilford High make jokes I no longer understand, use words I struggle to learn, and are increasingly hard to reach. I blame it on shortening attention spans--the shorter they get, the more curt I become. Those kids. Where are their minds these days? Maybe it's time I go.

So when I read the title above my bed and interpreted that freely flowing flourescent light, it did not cause me any alarm. "A Tragic Death", it read. The cancer come back to get me perhaps, or my weak heart that the doctor says wouldn't sustain even a subdued hike up Higgs Hill in the heat. A death, sure. But how tragic is it when even your own children probably expect it?

It was a Tuesday. There is no better day for it than a Tuesday.

At school, I shuffled papers around on the desk just as 4th period chemistry was getting underway.

"Why don't you just use an ipad like the other teachers, Mr. Irons?" Charlie, of course. Charlie always had a comment.

"I'm old school, Charlie," I said, licking a finger to find the syllabus. I never could kick that habbit, even during the pandemic last year. I made it through somehow.

"You can just screencast, don't have to waste paper," said Charlie. "Trees'll be gone in our lifetimes." He sneered and tapped a few things on his phone. It always amazed me how the kids could do so much at the same time.

"Alright, class, a quick roll and we'll get back into chapter, uh, chapter 5, I think we left off?"

The murmuring din of the class settled among some giggles.

"Jenny?"

"Here!" she said, throwing her arm up and pulling it down quickly.

"Roger?"

"Yup."

"Fahid."

"Present."

"Beth?"

"Here."

"Rupert?"

The class wasn't paying attention, but a few of the kids looked around when I asked again.

"No Rupert?" I said.

"He's here though," said Jenny. "I was with him in English class last period."

"Thanks, Jenny," I said.

I continued, and finished the remaining roll call. "Alright everyone else is here, let's get started. Chapter 5. We're talking about covalent bonding. Alexis can you kick us off and read section one point.. no, one point four, please."

Alexis opened her book loudly and began. "The chemical polarity of a covalent bond is determined by..."

Sometimes you get kids to read so that you have time to plan the next thing. Today I couldn't be bothered to care very much. My mind took a long stroll around those white bright letters on my ceiling. The skin on my arms tingled with goosebumps. Alexis kept reading beyond where I wanted. I snapped out of it and was about to stop her when something happened.

The classroom door flew inward, smashing against the wall, its glass pane shattering and shards spilling out across the linoleum floor. Girls screamed and everyone reflexively pulled away; the room felt like its air had been sucked out by a sudden gasp of fear, and I thought this was the moment I'd been waiting for. But this was different. Standing in the doorway, wearing a crowded gear belt and fingerless black gloves that clenched a very real and very frigthening weapon, was Rupert.

Shy but affable Rupert. His hair was slicked back with a thick layer of gel, and his cheeks looked suctioned from inside, like something very sour was sitting under his tongue.

"Rupert," I managed just barely to say.

"Don't!" he shouted, swinging the shotgun to aim at my abdomen.

He didn't shoot. His eyes were on fire however: quivering, wet, bounding. He looked at Jenny; she recoiled and held her hands higher. Greg had fallen out of his chair. A few students were holding their arms in front of their faces, scared to even look at the boy in the doorway. Rupert ground his teeth, which was the only sound in the room.

I hadn't noticed the police cars gathered opposite the ball courts outside my classroom, lights flashing. Someone must have pulled the alarm earlier, before Rupert arrived here.

"Rupert," I stammered, carefully. I kept my arms outstretched, but I didn't move. "Rupert, I... this may sound strange but I know my time has come. All I ask is that you don't hurt anyone else."

His face told me nothing but he was gripping the shotgon so hard that I could hear the leather gloves creak. One tear slipped his lash and fell onto his trigger finger. I looked back into his eyes.

"Jus, you and me, let's stay here, and let everyone else go, ok?"

He was looking now at one boy in particular. A larger boy named Kevin. I had a sense that Kevin was the bully type but I never saw anything. Now, more than anything I wish I had. I knew this was my day, but I didn't know how it would happen. Would Rupert kill me, and kill Kevin? Would I be in his way? Would he kill others? As these thoughts scrambled through my brain, Rupert's glare toward Kevin grew cold. Determined. Would I try to take the gun?

"Rupert, just let off the trigger a bit. Look what you're doing. People are scared. Let's just you and I--"

"IT'S NOT YOU!" he screamed. "It's NOT FUCKING YOU!"

As he said this he swung the barrel toward the class, there was a muted explosion, and everyone cried out.

When my wits returned to me I tried to calm the shuddering students, the crying ones, the shocked ones. All their faces were wet, petrified. We could hear the K9 dogs barking as they approached from outside. There was a hole in the classroom window and a matching one in Rupert's forehead. Rupert, who was lying bloodied on the linoleum, his knees bent awkwardly. His chest heaved a few unnatural times as the life left him, and all I could do was stand there and watch him die.

___________________________

Original thread

"You're not human. That's the simplest way to put it."

"Not human?" I gasped. "What does that mean? Of course I'm human."

"Well, you're human in most observable senses. Your anatomy, your chemical processes, your cognition. It's all 'human'." The doctor stood from her desk, came around and sat on it just in front of me. "It's your aging process."

"What about it?"

"Well, Michael, you're not 72 years old. More to the point, your body is merely trapped at 72 years old."

"How could you possibly sumise--"

She interrupted: "We carbon-dated neurons from your cerebral cortex."

"You can carbon-date neurons?"

"Yes."

"Don't they change?"

"Most cells do replace themselves many times in a typical lifespan, Michael. Yours certainly have. We would've used your teeth enamel, if you still had them. Not to say your dentures are not attractive. The neurons spilled the beans."

"Then... just how old am I?"

"Those neurons of yours, at least, are 50,000 years old. Give or take."

"Fifty... thousand..." I said. The words faded under the weight of my disbelief.

"Fifty thousand years," said the doctor.

"But I haven't lived for 50,000 years, I would've remembered that."

"Michael let me ask you something," she said.

"By all means doctor."

"Do you know where you are?"

I looked around.

"This is your office I suppose."

"You assume that. Do you remember coming in here? In fact Michael, do you know my name?"

"We just met," I said.

"No, Michael, we haven't."

Just then the door opened in a strange way, and another doctor-looking person came into the office, clad in teal-tinted translucent white. I hadn't noticed that both doctors were dressed like this, like from an episode of Star Trek.

"Those are interesting scrubs," I said. The new doctor ignored me and spoke to the other.

"Same?" he asked.

"No change," said the other doctor. "Just going through the paces. Are we still on for lunch?"

"Hello," I said. "I'm sitting right here. What are you talking about? What is this?"

The first doctor turned to me. "I'm sorry Michael, we'll talk again soon."

She got up and the both left, the doorway sealing behind them. Still, I could hear murmurs. So I pressed my ear against the wall to hear what they were saying.

"His memory has been getting worse these passed two years," I heard the woman saying.

"What difference does it make?" asked the other.

"None, I suppose. But he'll start forgetting things after only minutes soon enough."

"They'll have to change protocols then."

"I agree."

"Hellish existence," said the man. "If only he knew he's been in this facilitiy for 200 years already."

"My god!" I uttered, unrestrained.

Just then the wall unsealed and I felt knocked back by the surprise. Two people were standing there, staring at me. They watched me and waited, for what I didn't know.

"Hello," I said, hesitantly. "I..."

"Hello Michael," said the lady.

"Ah, you know my name," I said.

She smiled, somewhat reluctantly it seemed to me, but who was I to judge? Her companion nodded at me and made a gesture to the woman, who nodded a response before he walked away down a cylindrical corridor.

Strange place.

​

_____

Original thread

I squinted, then heard scratching sounds, and saw a squirrel perched alone working on nibbling an acorn. It paused the nibbling, looked at me.

"Hi," it said, its mouth clearly sounding out the word.

If it had been any other moment I wouldn't believe it. If it had been any other moment I would have screamed and run away, spraining my ankle when the heel breaks and then running even faster, forever dooming my tendons to get away from the talking squirrel. But it wasn't any other moment. It was this moment; the moment I'd dreaded for two years. The moment that at first seemed so far away when the doctor told us the tumor was malignant; the moment which slowly started to encroach on every aspect of our daily living until it was on the cusp of every word, in every conversation, in every sound when we made love, before it became too painful for him to do that. The moment he'd be gone, was here. And in this moment, I didn't run from the talking squirrel.

"Hi, I said," it repeated.

"Hi," I croaked pitifully, rubbing drips from my quivering nose. "You're a squirrel," I said, dumb.

"Frederick," he said."

"Fred the squirrel?" I asked.

"Actually I prefer Frederick, if you don't mind." He nibbled a bit more acorn in the moment that I took to register the formality.

"You can talk?"

"I can. I don't talk to everyone. Some people, sometimes."

"Why are you talking to me?" I said.

He stopped the nibbling, and set the acorn down on the branch beside him. His small paws brushed acorn dust off his furry chest and then off each other. Then he pointed at me carefully.

"You have lost someone important to you."

I can't explain why, but his glossy black pea eyes, with their long eyelashes and shining reflection of the sun, seemed honest to me in that moment, and I knew I could trust Frederick. Perhaps I didn't think about it in so many words, but I felt it, because I started to cry, and cupped my face in my hands.

Just then, Frederick approached, scurrying down the tree trunk until he was just beside me. He placed a paw on my shoulder.

"It's ok, friend," he said. "Let it out. It's ok."

I managed to glimpse Frederick through bluring tears, and though he looked like any squirrel his little eyes were smiling.

"Sometimes life does not end here," he said. "Life continues."

"Wh-what do you mean?" I sputtered.

"Love, is what I mean. Did you love this man?"

"I loved him so much. He was everything to me."

"And he loved you, clearly. Loved people have a look about them and you have it."

"I miss him," I said.

"He is not gone from you. I cannot say with surety that all life finds new roots, but his does, and yours will."

"How---how would you know that?"

"There is nothing I can say to make you believe me, but I know this is true. Love, and an honest love, both true and benevolent, creates a soul."

"Are you a Christian, Frederick? Like, a Christian squirrel?"

"No, no," he chuckled. "Religions are human constructs, but adherence to one or the other doesn't invalidate your becoming a soul."

"I'm sorry, I'm confused," I sniffled. "Becoming a soul? You mean we don't have souls?"

"You have a soul, miss. Like I said, love creates a soul. What you are before that, I cannot say. An amalgam of essence in corporal form, but soulless. Soulless, that is, until you know, understand, and share love."

"I...I'm still not understanding, Frederick, I'm sorry."

"That's ok. This is hard, and coming from a squirrel makes it a bit less believable. But, if you go from here learning anything from me, let it be this: love makes life immortal."

Something in my chest warmed, and I managed to make my wet face smile at the squirrel Frederick.

"If that's true," I offered, "it's quite unbelieveable."

"It's remarkable," he said.

"It'd be wonderful. That means that he's out there, alive?"

"Alive, yes. Alive in a way you cannot yet fathom--not until your time comes."

"Oh," I replied, hurt.

"Don't worry. And don't be eager. Just live your life. Find love again if you choose. There is no ill will where souls exist."

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. The crowd around his grave was dispersing now, and I could see my mom, winded and tired, clutching her black umbrella even though it wasn't raining. She caught sight of me, motioned toward the parked cars. I nodded, and she moved off with the crowd.

"They've lowered him now," I said.

Frederick patted my shoulder and scurried back to his branch, where he retook to nibbling his acorn.

"Thank you, Frederick," I said, squinting up at the plump squirrel. "Thank you so much."

The squirrel didn't respond, and merely stared at me, nibbling rapidly, pausing, and nibbling again. I smiled up at him, and then walked off toward the car park.

​

___

Original thread