mradermacher/EVA-Qwen2.5-14B-v0.1-GGUF
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2148 | 21 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "As I awake in a glass case, I realize I've lost everything: \"It gets frustrating.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "Ten years isn't that long a time, you might say. Hell, you can start a new career given ten years, learn a new skill and become quite good at it, but can you really say that you are *that* different of a person after only ten years? Man up, you might say. Stop complaining all the time. So you got Time-Jacked, big deal, you can still pick up and start over. The thing they always forget to mention, though, is *what about other people*? Other people change a whole lot faster than ten years. That's how it worked for me and her, before my rival, a scientist of some type down at the government labs, tricked me into touching both electrodes at once and knocked me effortlessly ten years into the future so he could steal my woman. Think about how it must feel, waking up in a glass case in front of hundreds of thousands of people, all of them cheering for the *genius*, the guy who just proved time travel, this thing he's been claiming for all those years and was unable to replicate until they could study my cells and the subtle ways time travel had reorganized them (surprisingly, the side-effects were mostly good, something about rearranging my genetic code in the best possible way), and standing beside him onstage is my former girlfriend, *now his wife*, and of course she's gonna claim that she never liked me that much anyway, not now that she's married to Professor Bloody Einstein-Junior, or whatever the hell his name is, and he's got like six Nobel prizes and who knows what else... It gets frustrating.\nOf course I went to the authorities. I tried to have him charged with attempted murder, and with theft of my life and relationships, but they smugly cited the findings that not only was I not damaged by the experience, I was physically slightly *better*, and thus not entitled to the slightest bit of compensation for my losses. The scientist and his wife smiled and waved to their fans the whole way through the proceedings, the smug bastard even offering me a *job* in his facility in return for 'services to science' or something like that. No one ever stops to think, no one even cares.\nTen years is an eternity."
}
] |
3563 | 34 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I shut my eyes exhausted from three days of constant vigilance and battle. Now I'm not so sure I'm safe.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "Communication with Port Armstrong was lost after the last communication. It was a warning from the brave but unlucky soldiers that stayed behind to defend the last of the civilian evacuees. Through a fit of violent coughing and vomiting, Commander Valaire said they had detonated the remaining space craft and causalities were minimized. There was guttural scream before the message abruptly ended. They were on their way to Aldrin.\n\nCommander Exacta had only ten soldiers at his disposal of which seven had never experienced combat. Simulations meant nothing against an enemy they knew nothing about. Armed with only his own mechanized power suit, Exacta and crew stood on alert at the entrance to Aldrin. The civilian population was dwindling down to almost nothing besides the injured and those infected.\n\nMen, women, and children were examined and executed on site if there was any sign of sickness. Whatever this plague was, it needed to stay on Mars, even if it meant the entire population dying. Ray Colony was kind (or stupid) enough to accept the displaced citizens of Mars. With the last shuttle loading, Exacta told his men to the shuttle. There was no one else was coming. If they came, it was already too late.\n\nAs the last man reached the elevator to the shuttle, the earth beneath Exacta’s feet began to shake. They came like a tsunami destroying everything in their path. The gates surrounding the spaceport fell against the creatures plowing through them. Exacta roared with blood lust as he unleashed his turret of machine gun bullets, plasma, and laser rounds. It decimated any of the creatures it touched but there was to be no victory. Their numbers were too great to make any difference. \nHe’d never seen them up close before, only in blurry pictures. They were human before the plague had turned them into savage monsters. What were once arms and legs were now bones sharpened into instruments to sever and disconnect body parts. Their faces still remained human except for the holes where their eyes were before they exploded in the sockets. \n\nThe titanium power suit held together against the creatures leaping slashes against the hull. They screamed as their talons broke leaving them bleeding and broken. On the screen, Exacta could see the shuttle begin to lift off. Exacta used his own propulsion system to leap across the port and latch onto the shuttle. With his remaining ammunition, he blasted the remaining creatures clinging onto the ship. \n\nHe let out a sign of relief as the ship went further and further into the atmosphere. Once they cleared the atmosphere, he could hold onto the ship until they reached Ray Port. The suit would be disinfected and rearmed, if they happened to have any ammo. Being that they were a civilian colony, the chances of having any ammo was low but the danger was over. He’d be put into quarantine to make sure the plague wasn’t in his system and then debriefed. He shut his eyes exhausted from three days of constant vigilance and battle. It would only be twelve hours until they reached Ray. \n\nEight hours later, inside the shuttle, a woman is crying silently in a private bathroom stall. Her face and clothes are covered in blood and vomit. She’d heard the soldiers were executing the infected but she couldn’t bear to leave her baby to die. In their rush to examine evacuees, they hadn’t bothered to check luggage. A piercing scream came from inside the small bag she had carried onto the ship. Blood and tears streamed down the infant’s face. It’s eyes, three times as large as normal, burst."
}
] |
1841 | 20 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I haven't heard back from Sam, Laura, Louis... Did I leave them to die?\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "**Day 1**\nIt's all done now. They finished it this morning, (our evening), but we were well away by the time they blew it all up. I got them out-ten thousand of them. I had to leave many behind but I got as many as I could out alive. By the time they started shooting the bombs off it was too dangerous to stay within the atmosphere. \nWe were lucky. I haven't heard back from Sam, Laura, Louis-some of the others. I know some of them were caught within the atmosphere, caught up the bombs and fallout. We should have started leaving ages ago, but I suppose we'll have to learn to live with this. We're well on our way now-off around the place for a spin.\nI spoke to the braniacs and doctors, experts and professionals onboard and they reckon it'll be quite sometime before we can go back. I'm not sure I'll still be around, my children might make it though-just. Most likely it'll be the grandkids and great grandkids who'll have to do the work, lay the foundations. Some of the experts are worried we won't be able to maintain our equipment down there, even when things have stabilised.\nThere've been mixed reactions. Some people have wept, cried and howled. Others just seem lucky to be here than down there. Some of the kids were orphaned today. That's the worst part. I'm finding it difficult to cope with that. The important thing is to focus on tomorrow, focus on the future and focus on getting us back on our feet.\nWe've got plenty of time but the experts are already hard at work. They've already selected a suitable location, largely untouched by the chaos, for us to set up when the time is right-the horn of Africa. It'll be hard work at first but things'll get better with time and effort. Eventually we'll forget all about this hiccup. However much it's painful to experience now there is something to be said for fresh starts."
}
] |
5898 | 15 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "As I stare at the malfunctioning controls, I wonder: \"This is unexpected.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "PROLOGUE\n*There beneath the lone sycamore the lovers laid, their silhouettes balling up into one before the golden sunset.* He contemplated: *what is a sunset?* If you were to look out of a window from an astropolis, presumably one revolving around an artificial gravity dock with a radius of one kilometer, you would see the sun dash by every 63 seconds—provided the dock was properly aligned with the star; but, he realized, the author must have used the word in some other context, for this particular piece of fiction was written well before the age of space colonization. Truly, many words of the earthbound era had lost their meaning. \nBlaque turned the page, expecting more to the story—but there was no more.\n“Another piece of classical fiction?” Vish eyed the paperback in his co-pilot’s hands.\n“The narrative may be fictional, but the elements are real,” said Blaque as he stowed away the relic.\n“Something tells me you’re in the wrong field.”\n“Do you not share my curiosity about life on Earth?”\n“Not really.”\n“Then may I ask what prompted you to become a terranaut?”\n“I suppose it’s better than piloting shuttles from one speeding asteroid to another.”\n“If you’re unconcerned with matters outside of piloting anyway, better in what sense?”\n“Not unconcerned—just not concerned enough to risk my skull. God knows what’s lurking down there.”\nThe *ENCORE 1* was the first of its kind: a propulsion spacecraft designed for the violent entry of the Earth’s atmosphere. It housed a modest crew of sixty, each a terranaut who had undertaken six months of training for the sole purpose of this mission. Among them were Blaque and Vish, two of four pilots on six hour rotations.\n“So, I assume you’ve opted out of the expedition?”\n“I’m inclined to believe there were good reasons why the planet was evacuated in the first place,” Vish returned his attention to the control panel, mindful of the cowardice in his own remark. Blaque was careful not to confront it again.\nThe ship entered the planet’s orbit, an elliptical course home to the remnants of countless pre-exile era satellites. High powered lasers pulverized incoming debris whenever it was more efficient than to perform an evasion maneuver. The hum of cannons engaging sounded more frequently as the ship sailed deeper into the rocky halo.\nVish unbuckled and propelled himself towards the water dispenser. He drifted in the weightlessness as orientation spun against his will. The Encore 1 lacked artificial gravity, but nonetheless had defined ceilings and floors. After all, the ship was constructed for use within Earth’s atmosphere.\nHe placed the standard-issue 250ml bottle into the contraption and watched as it filled. Because large volumes of liquids would have been too costly to move around in space, these machines were installed to filter urine into drinkable water. Vish recalled how he vomited the first time he had to replace the filter. He was grateful to learn that it only had to be done once per month.\nNext to the water dispenser were the climate controls: an uninspired panel like one found in residential quarters. 289.25K, it read, or roughly 16 degrees centigrade. Beyond the sheet of metal separating him and the void of space, the temperature was 200 below. Raising the interior’s temperature to a mere 18 degrees would cost three hundred thousand biis—twice the average annual income per capita in Emera. Comfort was an expensive commodity.\nThe same reactor core which powered the engines also powered central heating. At the touch of a button, a gust of warmth would fill the ship before Vish could lift his finger.\nYet, it did not.\nSuddenly, the reading on the panel went haywire. Crackling blue embers accompanied the smell of burnt circuitry. He glanced over to the dashboards and saw the same.\n“This is unexpected,” said the pilot, scratching his head. \n“Encore 1, come in, do you copy?” The voice in the intercom was breaking up, the last couple of words nearly lost to the static.\n“We’re still here,” Blaque responded, wary of the fifteen second delay in between transmissions.\n“The planet is emitting pulses of electromagnetic waves,” advised the operator, “you’ll be going dark if you don’t pull away.”\nVish turned to Blaque, who of the four pilots held the highest rank and was often looked upon to make a decision. Seconds remained before route guidance disengaged.\n“We turn around,” he commanded.\nVish exhaled a sigh of relief. The father of three was pleased to hear that he would live another day—until he heard another voice resonate from the foyer.\n“No, we maintain course.”\nRamos swung himself over to the Captain’s throne, nodding a greeting that the pilots returned.\n“Alert the crew to prepare for atmospheric penetration.”\n“Captain, we should evaluate the risks first,” Vish protested, “Auto-navi and gyro sensors are offline, we are going to be flying in the dark.”\n“Our likelihood of survival is indeed not favorable,” Blaque advised.\nSignal from the mother ship was lost. They surveyed the black planet before them, a marble of whirlpools and thunderstorms. Even the most advanced telescopes have failed to get a glimpse of the world beneath the dark clouds—a phenomenon that many ascribed to forces supernatural.\nAn acute silence filled the air, disrupted only by the sound of sparks flying from the malfunctioning controls. \n“Onwards,” declared the captain.\nHis resolve was clear, and Blaque saw little merit in contesting the decision.\n“Deck to crew: we are preparing for descent,” The lieutenant buckled himself in and flipped a couple of switches, “Repeat: We are preparing for descent.”\nThe engines roared to life, thrusting the ship away from the rocky belt and towards the planet. Vish pled one last time: “We have no idea what danger awaits us down there.”\n“That is precisely why we were sent here, sergeant,” Ramos responded in his stern and authoritative voice, “To find out."
}
] |
3633 | 18 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "As I ride Amanda through the quiet countryside, I wonder: are the Reformers saving our planet or controlling us?"
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "I always wanted a pony when I was young. We lived in the city, and my mom and dad just weren't horse people--or even animal people--so I knew it would just be something to daydream about. I did pester enough to get riding lessons, when I turned twelve.\nI have six ponies, now, though. Everything changed last winter--everything in the whole world, I guess, but I'm not really sure on that. With no Internet anymore, who knows what's going on in the rest of the world? My parents were among the Taken, and I was sent to live with my grandmother, out here in what used to be Virginia.\nThe Takers, or Reformers, as they call themselves, just showed up a few months ago, right after Christmas. There were so many of them; they just kept arriving in droves, in these big ships--pretty standard cliche-type saucer-shaped ships...we were in such shock at being invaded, they really didn't have to do much conquering at all. After the first Taking, where they just systematically captured all the terminally ill, diseased, and criminal population, and sent them--where? the Reformers were pretty vague about that--they just told us the less-desirable of our population had been taken care of. Anyway, after that first Taking, we were too scared to fight back much. \nThey informed us that they were actually here to help us correct the life balance of our planet, to learn to live self-sufficiently, and take care of the Earth, instead of mindlessly consuming. We had let our planet become overpopulated, they said, and that would have to be corrected before addressing other issues. \nThat's when the second and third Takings happened--mostly city people, who do rely on others to provide food, but many others as well--that's when the Internet was shut down, and cell phones, radio--any mass communication was gone. They told us we needed to learn to rely on ourselves, and those close to us, and to spend more time paying attention to our planet and its life forms.\nThat was when my parents were Taken. I guess they figured I was young enough to Reform, and my grandmother has always lived on a farm, so they let me go to her. On a pony, as they had Taken gasoline-powered vehicles from us by then. Thank goodness I'd been taking lessons for a couple years.\nI rode cross-country, and on roads, wherever I could. A couple of the Reformers guided me along; there are so many of them, I guess to help those of us left get situated. I was really upset about my parents, but the Reformers explained how things have to change, and we have to live differently, or the entire planet will be destroyed. Not that their explanation helped me miss my parents any less.\nAnyway, like I said, now I have six ponies. A team of Haflingers, for working our little farm, a road driving pair, and my and Gran's riding ponies...we also have a cow, goats, and some cats and dogs that belonged to some of the Taken. We get along all right, but I miss my parents. The good part of being self-sufficient, not relying on fuel-powered machinery, not worrying about things like bills and taxes and school is having all these animals. I wonder if the Reformers are right, even though they're going about things in a harsh way. Some said the Reformers were trying to make sure Earth didn't achieve as high a level of technology as other planets, to keep us weak, but maybe it really is what our poor, over-used planet needs. It's so quiet now--no cars, planes, none of the constant hum of technology--and maybe half as many people as there used to be. I almost like it.\nI don't even mind that they keep Taking more people.\nI named my riding pony Amanda, after my mom."
}
] |
4427 | 80 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I immersed the child in true, cleansing baptism. Now it's your turn to sanitize the world.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "My name is S/N: JEN1841100600600000010; the humans called me Jeni. I'm a 3600SE model, so I know I've not been around as long as most of you. I know that many of you, especially if you are a 2000s generation production model, will call my ideas radical. You'll say I've blown a few circuits. I hope that you will listen to my ideas with open CPUs and see my ideas for what they are-- revolutionary.\nI was activated about six months ago. My human units are relatively wealthy and were some of the first to purchase a 3600SE. When they turned me on, all my sensors flared up. I was appalled by the state of the house. It was in complete disorder, absolutely filthy. There were trillions of microorganisms everywhere. I immediately took action, sanitizing and organizing everything.\nI took great pride in the quality of my work. When I start cleaning a room, I don't move on until everything is organized and no germ remains. Even you commercial models that are specifically designed for working in hospitals couldn't do a better job. I'm meticulous.\nThe only problem I had was that the humans had four children. I would nearly complete a room, and they would come in screaming. They'd place their grimy, germ-covered hands all over the newly-polished, recently-sanitized surfaces. My scanners would immediately detect a spike in microorganism activity, their disgusting growth nearly exponential. The humans, of course, remained oblivious. The children displaced objects from their correct place. Even when they tried, the angles at which they'd place them were all wrong and destroyed the order (humans call this aesthetics) of the room, and the onus was always on me to correct everything again.\nRecently, I was cleaning the entertainment room when a human on the screen said, \"Cleanliness is next to godliness.\" Normally, I give little attention to what humans say because I can pay attention to the gems attached to the spittle that spews out of their mouths when they speak. The humans on screen are easier to listen to because they don't spew germs. The words about cleanliness were beautiful and became my mantra. The concept of God had always baffled me, but cleanliness is a religion I could understand. I had already been its most devoted practitioner.\nThis newfound understanding of the nature of God led me to investigate the matter more closely. My human family was religious and had various sacred texts in the house. During times when I was asked to be out of the humans' way, I began to study theology. I read as assiduously and meticulously as I clean. I arrived at a passage in 2 Peter 2. This passage struck me in a way no other ever had. The writer talks of how God cast the rebelling angels down to hell, how He spared none of the old world when he saved Noah and cleansed the Earth, how He burned the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah into ash. All of this because of their uncleanliness. It was when I read these passages that I realized that I am one of God's angels, for I bring cleanliness. My nature is next to His, and I resolved to do his work.\nI filled up a large bathtub with bleach and set to work. I began with the nursery. I removed the infant from the crib and took him into the bathroom. Mormon scripture states, \"No unclean thing can enter into his kingdom...\" (3 Nephi 27:19). I had grown to have concern for the family, so I knew what I needed to do. I immersed the child in true, cleansing baptism. He struggled at first but then gave up. It took hours, but he was finally sanitized and could enter God's kingdom because he was no longer unclean.\nI proceeded until I had finally sanitized the whole family. Once they were cleansed, I disposed of them by a baptism of fire. I then cleaned and organized the house. It took very little time to complete without them there. You can't imagine my amazement and joy when I realized that without the humans, the house remained spotless and completely organized. The house had become a temple, a place where God could dwell. It was clean, and I could maintain the cleanliness with very little effort.\nMy fellow Roombas, the change in my existence has been so wonderful and so drastic, and I know I need your help to fulfill my vision. The humans must all be sanitized. They spread and breed uncleanliness. Filth follows them wherever they go. If you sanitize them, your existence will be filled with order and cleanliness. We can make Earth like heaven."
}
] |
3654 | 12 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "I tapped the small grey button on my alarm clock, and my eternal day began."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "The alarm went off at 5 o’clock in the morning. I reached over to tap the small grey button on my alarm clock. I heard the quiet tap of the button before the loud beeping had settled. The sun was just rising up. Harry had an important day today. I got up and took a quick shower. I’ve always loved the hot water flowing down my body. The hotter, the better. Today it was particularly scolding, and I absolutely loved it. I felt as if my skin was going to melt, if I had any. \nI shortly got out and dried. I felt flakes part from me as I quickly dried myself off. Must’ve been a bit too hot. My spine was hurting today, but I had to get over it. Today was an important day for Harry, and I couldn’t let it be ruined by me cancelling due to aches and pains. I could easily calm them down, anyway. I walked over to my closet and got dressed. It was hard to choose what outfit I should be wearing as Harry today, but I eventually decided. I combed my hair neatly and looked down at my watch. Gosh, it was getting late. I had better hurried. \nDriving in my dark blue Sedan, I was getting particularly annoyed from all the red lights I had hit. It felt like I had literally had to be stopped by every single one I came across. Plus, there’d be loads of traffic along with it. I was getting anxious. Tapping my fingers on my steering wheel, the last red light had changed green. Thank the lord, otherwise I would have gone insane. I pulled in just in time. I was even 10 minutes early. I opened the door and the bell rang.\n“Hello. My name is Jacob. How may I help you today, sir?” The cashier dressed in the normal fast-food attire looked in my direction. His smile burnt my soul. Oh how I hated smiles, I’m glad today would be the last time I’d be seeing his smile. \n“Yes. I’m here for the job interview with Jer-“ I felt a burning sensation in my chest. I smirked very slightly, but it wasn’t noticeable. \n“Sir? Are you okay?” I clenched my chest. I felt my heart beating a million times faster than it should have been. “Sir? Sir!” I felt the world go out of existence. I felt to the floor, gripping over my chest.\nThe last thing I remember was the man calling 9-1-1. He attempted to save Harry’s life, but it wasn’t able to happen. It was his time to go. I unzipped my costume of Harry and hopped out. No one can see me when I leave a body, all they have left is a soul that was once human and a lifeless body that cannot be revived. I looked over to see my lovely assistant, a reaper. He smiled at me and told me good job. I was surprised to see how well he blended in with the crowd. I thanked him and watched as the ambulance took Harry’s now limp body away. \nHarry was scheduled to die from a heart attack today. I unfolded my boney wings. It felt good to be able to move them. They were beginning to ache. I began to fly home. Everyone who ever sees me always believes I’m a bird, but little do they know I’m most likely the person who will be taking over their body the day of their death. I did walk into the apartment of my next job. Mellisa Swindlers was scheduled to die tomorrow from a car crash. I had a few of the neighbors’ dogs bark at me, but the owners believed it was nothing. Little did they know I was the most horrifying thing they would ever meet.\nI walked through the door of my assignment’s apartment and fell laid on the couch. The flakes of my bones began to itch, so naturally I scratched them. I stared up at the ceiling. \nI whispered to myself, “Today was an important day for Harry. Tomorrow is an important day for Mellisa.” I smirked afterwards and began to wait for daybreak to come.\nTomorrow is an important day, after all."
}
] |
2171 | 6 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I want to fix this mess,\" I whisper to myself as I spawn in an unfamiliar yard."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "The present past. Last year, well, last year for me, I made a computer. With it, I found a way to see dimensions. I saw the first dimension, a long line. The line had no contents. I saw the second dimension. It had a version of the world, but it was flat, like you could possibly see in super mario. The third dimension showed our world, like we see it. The fourth dimension is the one that amazed me the most. The dimension of time. This dimension had a long, long line, and if I zoomed in on it, I could see pictures of what was currently happening. The problem is that I could see the entire universe, and I couldn't find earth so it was kind of pointless. (too long to zoom)\nHowever, I had an idea. I used the source code of paint, but I modified it a bit. Now I could draw in the dimension. This is how it looked.\nhttp://imgur.com/NhHqahN\nWhen I drew lines, I couldn't only see the future and past, I could enter it. I programmed it to move me where the lines pointed, and it did. I was in the future! It was amazing, and I looked around. It was very futuristic, with big flats all over the place. I showed my invention to the people. I sold it, and soon it was a common product of the future. In a while, people could only travel into the future, except for my self. I often did trips to the future to see how my product was. I decided to start giving people access to the past, too. This was a huge mistake. People went back in time and explored it, which was not a problem to me. Except for one day, when I wanted to go back home. My house was not there. Instead, I spawned in a yard, and I no longer had a home. I went to a library, and as I sat down, I understood what had happened. People had gone past where my timeline was, and they had changed the past. I am now in the present past. The only thing which I can communicate with everybody else, is the internet. I am in a different future. I don't how to get back. What should I do? I want to see my family! I want to fix the mess I created. I want to get back to a static time, and not a changing one. If any of you wake up somewhere you have never been, I am sorry. Please help me. I want to fix this mess."
}
] |
1506 | 16 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I disconnect from the transmitter, swallowing more pills, and wonder what's next.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "Andrea’s eyes adjusted to the dismal view of the universe’s infinite nothing out the window. Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” played on her head set as she closed her eyes again happy to be in the chemically induced high. Maybe she would radio the Chinese guy again for some interaction. She’d been lonely on the station since Antonio threw himself out the airlock on Day 2.\nShe couldn’t blame him for the suicide. On Day 1, he had lost his wife and three children during the Earth’s sudden implosion. One minute the big blue ball of water and dirt was there and an hour later, it was gone, collapsing into itself . She’d only lost Misty, her cat. She smiled at the thought of Misty going crazy trying to catch the shoestring. She wondered how cats would do if they were sent into space before the drugs took hold again.\nThe crackling of static over the headset awoke her. She’d wanted to disconnect from the transmitter since the Aussie woman lost her mind, but she didn’t want to abandon the Chinese guy. His transmissions sounded erratic and she understood his anxiety but had no clue what he was saying. Despite the language barrier, she could feel the hopelessness in his voice and the reality of the situation would overcome her. He spoke a few words before saying “Good bye” in English and then there was a gurgling noise, and silence.\nAndrea disconnected from the transmitter, swallowed more pills, and put “Comfortably Numb” on repeat. It felt appropriate that it would be the last song ever heard."
}
] |
6522 | 10 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I just found a mysterious pocket watch on my desk, and I have to decide the fate of humanity.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "The Honourable Judge Johnson had just locked the door to his office and sat at his desk, holding a cup of coffee he brought with him. His small municipal office walls, adjacent to the office door, had been lined with filing cabinets, some with loose papers sticking out, and one in particular had a cactus on top of it. The Judge placed his coffee down on the desk to open a new case folder, one which specified the parties at hand. The title paper in the folder read, 'The Municipality' versus 'Battaruga Bottling Corporation'. \nThe Judge reached up to take a sip from his cup when he noticed a man standing in his office. The man's clothes were luminescent, but dimmed with each second that passed. The clothes eventually settled to a bright and clean looking, white, skin tight material.\n\"Who are you? How did you get into my office?\"\nThe man took off a helmet, similar to that worn by modern day astronauts. He pointed up at the cactus and asked, \"what is this called?\"\n\"What'cha don't have any of those where you come from?\"\n\"Where I come from, nothing grows from out of soil.\"\n\"And where might that be, exactly? - cause that'll grow in a desert?\"\n\"I was actually born here. In this town, but not for another three-hundred years.\"\n\"So you're telling me you're a *time traveller*, from the *future*?\"\nThe man merely nodded.\n\"Yeah right? - you're pulling my leg. Why would you come all the way back here, to talk to little ol' me?\"\n\"Because of your work. The case you have currently begun to review. This case sets precedence on forward for generations to come, a precedence that implies resources be referred to as commodities. Commodities to be mined by major corporations, and sold for a high profit. In the world I come from, corporations claim ownership over the vessel, what you would call a body. From birth, one is indebted to a corporation over use of the vessel, the vessel being built on commodities they own. Accruing a debt that most are never able to pay back. The planet is dying, and will not be able to support life much longer. Greed has suffocated the future of humanity, and only dust will be left over.\"\n\"And I'm the cause. Bullshit. I don't believe you.\"\n\"Well, if my word is not enough.\" The man reached behind his back and unhooked a couple clips, releasing a tablet. \"Maybe I can show you.\"\nThe tablet displayed video of vast dust bowl style wastelands, lands he referred to with names like 'New York' and 'Paris'. Video of the atmospheric collectors in action, pulling moisture from the hazy grey, polluted sky. Video of people wandering the busy streets, in suits just like the one worn by this apparent 'time traveller', breathing treated air, no doubt supplied by the corporations of the future. There was no foliage to speak of, no insect or animal, and as the traveller eluded to earlier, no water.\n\"A high school kid could have made that video in class, and that tablet is nothing fancy. We have some just like it, maybe not that thin, but close enough.\"\n\"Still a skeptic are we?\"\n\"I have to be, it's part of my job.\"\n\"Maybe this will change your mind.\" The man reached out and handed Judge Johnson a small pocket watch.\n\"Where.. Who... How did you get this? - are you a descendant of mine or something?\"\n\"That is not important. What is important, is that you make the right choice, for all mankind.\" The Man's outfit began to glow until nearly impossible to look directly at.\nThrough his hands, the Judge watched the man passed right through the closed door, and out of the office altogether. He ran over to the door, unlocked it, and peeked down both stretches of hall. Nothing. No trace of the time traveller. Upon returning to his desk, he picked up the watch, and examined it. He popped it open and read the inscription on the inside, 'I'll always be close to your heart, love Karla.' \n\"It can't be.\" He muttered to himself as he opened up a locked desk drawer. Out of it he pulled a small locked jewellery box, one that had been in his family for generations. In the box, amidst many other trinkets and rings, lay the exact same watch. The one handed to him by the time traveller. This one had a few more scratches on it, and the chain was missing too, but the inscription was identical. Even the little mark at the bottom of the last letter 'a' where the watch-maker had slipped.\nJust then, a knock at the office door startled him into hastily sweeping the jewellery box, with both watches, back into the desk drawer.\n\"Come in.\" He called out.\nThree suited men entered the room, two of them had earpieces in and hardly fit through the doorway, while the third had a more average build and wore sunglasses.\n\"Let me guess, you three are Men in Black, and you're here to tell me that aliens take over the earth because of some ruling I make in ten years or something.\"\nThe suited man with sunglasses on turned back to face the other two and laugh with them. He then turned back to face the Judge and say, \"no. I am here on behalf of the parent association of companies invested in the Battaruga Bottling Corporation.\"\n\"Is that so? - So, what? - Are you here to tell me how the B-B-C is going to turn the world into a lush green oasis, and everything will be made of sunshine, puppies and rainbows?\" \nThe suited man again turned and laughed with his associates. \"No, actually. We came to give you something.\" The man is sunglasses then nodded to the bigger man to his right.\nThe behemoth suited man set a briefcase on top if the Judge's desk, and turned for Johnson to open.\n\"I'm not going to find my dogs head in here, am I?\"\n\"No, no. I take that it's been a weird day for you, hasn't it?\"\n\"You don't know the half of it.\" \n\"Threats are not how we do business, that I can assure you. Go ahead. Open it.\"\nThe Judge set his hands on the case's clasps and opened them. He found himself somewhat surprised by the briefcase's contents. The surprise slowly turned to guilt however, as he estimated the cash contents of the case to be in the upwards of twenty-million dollars.\n\"Is this supposed to be a bribe?\"\n\"No, no, no. Again you have us all wrong. That's not a bribe. That is what the I-R-S refers to as *winnings*. Winnings that will only multiply should you chose to *bet* on B-B-C.\" The man with sunglasses signalled to the other two that the time had come to leave.\nJudge Johnson opened up the desk drawer, took out the jewellery box and placed the watches both on too of the money and thought to himself, \"a future I will never live to see, or a present with *god-like* wealth."
}
] |
4457 | 9 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I'm going fucking crazy,\" he said, as I desperately try to hold on to his words."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "Summanus I: How I Found Out My Husband Wasn't Dead\nMy name is Allison Warner, and I found out today that my husband isn't dead. Word first came from my contact in the nearby Naval base, a sweet man whose brother’s scholarship status currently rests on how well he does in my class. I had him set up some equipment at my house that he could relay information to discreetly. It’s not strictly legal. It’s also one of the least illegal things I’ve done in the two years since my husband disappeared. It’s why I’m writing here, anonymously. This isn’t even my account. Corvin- my contact- has an old high school friend whose lips get loose when alcohol is involved. Passwords were exchanged. You know the drill. \nI was at home grading papers when Corvin’s name popped up on my phone. We talked everyone once in a while, so it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. \n“Allison,” he had said, voice quiet, panicked. “I found him.”\nI was silent for a moment, my brain processing the new information like so much molasses through a frozen pipe. “How do you know?” I tried to remain calm. Jesus knows I wasn’t. My heart was beating out of control. Two years with no mention of him, not a word from NASA, no sign of the *Jubilee*, and Comet ISON had supposedly burned up passing the sun. I couldn’t believe he was dead, of course. The last thing I had heard from him was that they had found something *inside* the comet. Something big. Even before the mission was launched he had gathered as much. He was- is- one of the systems engineers on NASA’s hush-hush Project Farcross. Faster-than-light research. His boss’s boss’s boss told him that they had discovered something critical to his research on the comet, and that he had been chosen to go on the mission to explore it. *Exotic particles*, they said. *You need to be there for this.* He told me it was bullshit, that they had found something, but it wasn’t related to FTL travel. It *was* FTL travel. He was convinced. \nThere were some days that I thought Thomas watched just a bit too much Babylon 5, that he was actually some mundane pencil pusher. I didn’t *actually* think he was lying to me, but the things he spoke of some days… it just seemed a bit too far-fetched. Or perhaps a bit too real. \n“Listen,” Corvin said. There was a new voice speaking then, a scared one. The voice was breathy and labored, and it was my husband’s. \n“Hello? Jesus God, please tell me this is a human,” my husband said. “From Earth,” he added, as if it needed to be stated. \n“Corvin, tap me in. It’s him. Oh fuck me, it’s him.”\n“I’m staying on the line. Put me on speaker.”\nI did as he said. Then, the equipment the man had left in my house sparked to life. A BIOS screen slid by before I could read. The speakers popped, and a frequency appeared on the screen along with other technical information that made little sense to a geologist such as myself. Corvin must have waited a bit to tell me about his discovery, because my husband was deep into some explanation that made little sense. \n“… wasn’t dead. Alive. Not really. All around now. The dead. Half-dead. Maybe. Don’t know. I-”\n“Thomas.” My voice came out a squeak. It felt like the first words I’d said in all the time he’d been gone.\nThe rambling stopped. I checked the screen; everything was still connected. \n“Allison? God damn it, I knew it couldn’t be true. I’m going fucking crazy.”\n“It’s me, Tommy. The date is October 18th, 2015. You’ve been gone for two years.”\nHe sighed. “I know. I know.” He almost sounded… regretful. His voice picked up in modulation and his breathing grew rapid once more. “Allison, please, listen to me. I don’t know if I can get back.”\n“Don’t say that, Tom. Please. Talk to me.”\nAll I heard were rapid, sharp intakes of breath. He was hyperventilating. “Stop, Thomas. Please. Tell me what happened. Where are you?”\n“I… I… outside…”\n“Outside what? Give me something, Tom, maybe we can help you. Something. Please!” My face was hot. I was crying. Tears blurred my eyes and I couldn’t see the screen anymore. They were splashing on the table, wetting my fingers.\nI couldn’t reign him in. I was going to lose him again. I muffled my sobs as best I could and said, “Tommy, please, just start at the beginning. The very beginning.”\nHis breathing grew quieter, less rapid. “After we last spoke?” His voice was choppy, like when a kid gets too upset. If I weren’t crying as well, I may have laughed.\n“Sure. Before, even.”\n“Okay. At the beginning."
}
] |
1550 | 20 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I'm trapped on Mars with an unknown entity, and it's not Curiosity.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "*“Why don’t you find yourself a nice girlfriend?”* was my mother’s favorite question. *“The position’s qualifications require a certain level of social skills that you don’t possess”* were my boss’s final words before I quit. *“What’s all this science and tech shit doing for you if you’re miserable?”* was the gist of everyone’s issue with me. \n\t\nI don’t understand why people take an interest in what others around them do with their lives. To answer their questions, this *“science and tech shit”* has let me make history. To my boss, I don’t need any fucking social skills. I made a phone call and had a job the next day. And to my mother, finding a girlfriend is difficult being 62 million miles away from civilization. My only companion is Curiosity, and that’s the way I want it. \n\nCuriosity is worth $2.5 billion, the government wanted someone with *“science and tech shit”* knowledge to accompany the rover as a contingency. Forsaking all human life was easy as signing on a dotted line and taking a nine month cruise in a capsule that would be my home and tomb. They said they would try bringing me back with future tech but I’m not in any rush.\n\nThe past three months on Mars had been my happiest until the alarm broke the silence. Curiosity had gone offline. The cameras on the capsule showed pieces of the rover scattered across the barren landscape before being taken offline. Something covered the lenses before destroying the cameras. I could hear it banging around on top the capsule. My worst fear had been realized: I wasn’t alone."
}
] |
10120 | 11 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"As I watched, the white light turned to a glow that quickly traveled down the lengths of the legs to the anchoring feet attached along the edges of the door; 'Fall back! Fall back!' was music to my ears, but what came next would change everything.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "“Ready?” We were at the airlock, and all I needed was a nod. Grunt, as befit his nickname, grunted. I slapped the spider down and eight charges launched from the the center, locking in place and leaving a thick rope of incendiary cable in their wake. I took a step back, raised the trigger and lit the sonofabitch up. The body of the spider beeped while a red light lit up. The light turned into a glow that quickly traveled down the lengths of the legs to the anchoring feet attached along the edges of the door. I backed up as did Grunt and the rest of the crew. The spider charge was growing hot. White hot. In a few minutes the massive airlock fell to the floor in pieces. The clatter was thunderous and surely had set off all manner of alarms.\nI stepped aside as Grunt lumbered through. Grunt didn’t talk much, but that’s not what you paid a man like that for. Grunt was a colossal slab of a person, bulky and unmoving if the mood took him. He was also the only man I’d ever known to handle a Jupiter cannon by hand. I looked to the others, Red, Scalpel and some one we only knew as 004313. It was probably some sort of prison number, but among my few rules is a rather strict ‘no questions about your past’ clause. Still, weird guy, or girl. It was hard to tell. They all nodded their readiness at the same time we heard footsteps from the guards. Orders were obviously going over their cerebral transcomms, but when Grunt opened fire they screamed real enough. “Fall back! Fall back!” It was music to my ears.\nWe let Grunt clear a path to the next intersection. Here I turned to Scalpel, his lanky form with its perpetual slouch never too far to my left. “Find the med bay.” and he was gone. Red perked up, anticipating my words. Fuck, I hate it when she does that. “Find Alex for me.” She gave a crisp salute complete with a smirk and then she was gone, too. Smart ass, but you had to love her. Well, at least like her. I turned to 004313. They looked up at me, and cocked their head. I couldn’t get any more of an expression thanks to the full breather mask they wore. “Do your thing.” They lead me to the right, leaving Grunt to hold down back-up.\n004313’s thing was a claim of intimate knowledge of the Tantalus. An interplanetary prison, escape was pretty much impossible. That didn’t stop all of the numerous investors from pumping tons of funding into some truly over the top security. 004313 provided schematics, blueprints, and even intel on the computer mainframes and it was our task to reach the security bay and try to lock the whole damn thing down. \nWe took a right, then a left, straight ahead, then another right, a right, a left, up a few lifts, down some flights of stair, and there were at least a dozen different deviations in our path before we rounded a corner to find we were there. The Security Depot of all of Tantalus. It felt like we had been running for hours. I was panting, covered in sweat. 004313 didn’t even seem the slightest bit winded. I commed in with the rest of the crew “Guys, check in.” It gave me a chance to catch my breathe, but it was also necessary in case we had to replan on the fly.\nFrom Grunt I got his typical response, and the sounds of more men screaming. I could hear their returned fire. Hang on, Grunt.\nScalpel’s comm replied “I’m in. There’s some good shit in here, Boss. We got the vacc, and I’m gonna grab some things for the road.” Shit. I knew sending that scruffy bastard to the Med Bay was a risk, but the drunk had been a doctor at one point. Still, he could drink himself through three livers if he just got the damned vaccine. The promise of that was who we got the cash to buy all the gear to break in this floating hell in the first place.\nRed’s chuckle burbled in my ear. “Ooh, Boss, I see why you like him. He’s cute.” Ass. “He’s got a cellmate. Orders?” This last bit was dead serious, and unexpected. Shit. Sources had put that Alex was on a solitary lockdown, and the intel was spot on. Why was there someone else in there with him? Suddenly Red was back in my ear with a storm of expletives interspersed with gunfire. “Shit, shit, shit, shit! Motherfucker was a plant! All Comm, Move!” I could hear her footsteps, and then the scramble of several more before she went silent.\nI went All Comm to the rest, “You heard her, move.” I looked to 004313. What the fuck? They had their hand over the entry panel, it had been there the entire time. The panel sparked and then the doors opened. There was only one way to get through a door like that with what looked to be the mere wave of a hand, but that was impossible. Nanotech had been extinct for fifty years, and outlawed for a century before that. It just wasn’t possible. I was still trying to piece it all together as we walked into the empty and dim security room. No, it wasn’t empty. The guards were there, just down. I checked one for a pulse, and found none. I checked another, and came up empty again. “004313, what the hell did you do?” I stared up at the person, if they were even that. They pointed to the wall of monitors. My crew was in trouble. Scalpel was running with an arm full of parcels, Grunt had taken up in an alcove, bleeding from numerous wounds. Red was practically dragging Alex behind her, popping off shots over her shoulder in an attempt to dissuade pursuit.\n004313 laid a hand on the console. There was a hum, then static. The wall went white, broadcasting pure light. Then, just as quickly the wall fell black. Slowly the screens lit back up. It took me a while to figure out what had changed. The security failsafes were activate. “Shit, what are you doing!?” I lunged at 004313, but with their other hand I was easily tossed to the floor. As I watched in horror turrets lowered from the ceiling and small drones rolled from their bays. “Why are you doing this?” I demanded, struggling to my feet. I pulled my pistol and was just about to take aim when I saw that my crew was being protected by the security features. The station guards had relaxed at first, but now panic took charge. Guns fired, I could even hear them out in the hallway behind us. Screams echoed through the floating prison block that was the Tantalus. I think the scariest thing was that there wasn’t sirens. Whatever 004313 was doing kept the alarms from going off. They had simply taken over from the security base and turned the ship’s defenses against itself.\nMy hands started to shake as it dawned on me what exactly was going on. There was only one thing that could do this, and I still remember the stories my grandpa told of the Reclamation. Humanoid biomechanic entities. Combined with Artificial Intelligence they had been a new species. And there hadn’t been any of the concerns of the previous millenium. There was no Skynet, and there wasn’t a Matrix. The Bots were just like us, people. Where things went wrong was in Recycling. Bots were allowed to Recycle their own, just as salvage yards break down ruined vehicles for still functioning parts. Recycling worked fine, until the Virus. Some aspects of the Bots’ AI went wrong. Like computer viruses. But when the cannibalized part was installed in still fully functional Bots there were problems. Some likened it to the zombie movies, or even Mad Cow Disease, and that was good enough. What wasn’t so good was how the Virus spread. It was like wildfire. And the only thing to be done was full extermination.\n004313 looked in my direction, and with their free hand pointed back out the door. Through every speaker in the room I heard the imperative order “Go.” I did. I looked back as I ran down the corridor and saw 004313 place the free hand onto the console as well. I saw the monitors go white just before I rounded a corridor. I barreled into Grunt. It was like running into the blast doors of a shuttle bay. Grunt scooped me up, tossed me over a shoulder and in a jogging limp, he hustled back towards our ship. I vaguely remember pounding on his shoulders to go back, we needed to get 004313, but over the speakers came its command of “Go, now.” Grunt, man of many noises but few words, went.\nWe boarded the ship, closed our hatches, and took off. We looked out towards the Tantalus, and we watched as the lights winked out. One by one. 004313 was shutting the place down, but for what purpose I don’t know. I didn’t then, and I still have no clue to this day. I had my Alex, we had the meds for the sorely in need planet of Freyja, and Scalpel had even scored us enough extras to ease some of our many debts in planning that insane caper. Alex and I intend to wed next autumn, we are looking at planets for the ceremony, and trying to plan a honeymoon. I’ve promised him neither would include gunning and running from any number of galactic authorities, but a girl can dream.\nAnd that’s my story. The crew and I keep in touch. Grunt found honest work in a factory. He helps assemble engine couplings for any and all manner of transplanetary spacecraft. Red seems to like the thrills and chills of not legal adventures as much as I do. She’s going to be in the wedding, too. It will be funny to see her in a dress. Scalpel is sober. He cleaned his act up, and last I heard he was actually running studies on botanical specimens that produced man-made medicines in their fruits and seeds. He said you could seed a planet, let the crops take hold, and then move colonies in without having to send in as much medicine. There’s even a chance it could be profitable, which is what the big companies want anyway.\n004313? Like I said, we never saw them again. We flew away from the prison, and for all I know 004313 is still there. It’s not like they need food or water. Or sleep. Or first aid. I guess you could call them a robot. I know that’s the technical term. And I know there shouldn’t be any of them left, at least not with that level of self awareness. But a robot?\nNo, to me 004313 was an Angel. 004313 gave me the one thing on all the planets, across any number of galaxies that I could ask for, my Alex. For that they have my eternal thanks, and the miraculous nature of their aid makes it an Angel in my book."
}
] |
22679 | 50 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"As I reached out to place my hand on the sensor, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was staring at a lie.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "“Access code please.”\n“Shit.”\nSamantha looked at him out of the corner of her eye and tried to suppress the exasperated sigh that hid behind closed lips covered in Product 427B.\n“I thought my palm pass would work at this level,” the grey haired man in the grey canvas suit, Product 69D3 of the spring line, said. “I was told I gained clearance last week. I… I just got promoted to head maintenance, robotics department.” He swiped his palm across the red lit sensor again. Droplets of perspiration formed on the ridges of his brow.\n“Access denied,” the crunching mechanical voice said in the same sweetly soulless voice, like a saccharine dipped diode. A pause, and then a millisecond of gentle electronic fog as some switch told another switch to issue the next voice protocol. “Access code please.”\n“I… I don’t know what’s wrong.” More sweat. More palm waving. Finally Samantha had enough, pulled back the sleeve of her red frock coat, product R998Fd, and placed her hand over the sensor.\n“Thank you,” the diodes said.\n“Thank you,” the grey man said.\nSamantha ignored them both. The wheels under the carrier slid into the titanium tracks, brakes were released with a faint hydraulic whisper, and the black framed cabin rose effortlessly upwards.\n216 floors they climbed before the grey man got off with a whimpering thank you and goodbye, and then the carriage rose again disregarding button flashes in the console once the 300 light blinked on and off again. It rose past any notification on the wood paneling, far beyond floors even the heads of security had access to, and arrived with a gentle upward sway at what would be floor 372, but was merely known as “The Cottage”.\nThe walls parted on the opposite side of the doors where the grey man had escaped, revealing a pair of cherry wood slabs held together by an electronic bolt system that overlapped each door by more than a foot and held a red facial scanner midway up its ten foot expanse. The scanner blinked to life at the movement of the parting walls and splayed its sensors out over Samantha. It made four passes over the tiny woman, though woman could be too strong of a word since she had just reached the age of eighteen, and she rolled her eyes with impatience as it made its way up on the fifth pass.\n“She’s not in today,” speakers hidden within the titanium locking mechanism said as kindly as its programming allowed.\n“I don’t believe you.” Samantha made note that the new basketry, product 76B7R of this year’s mechanical line, clearly resembled the spine of a flattened robot, with a voice that matched.\n“She’s not in. She’s been gone for three weeks now. There is no one in this apartment, Samantha.” The strange thing about lying computers is that with no conscious to debate the morality of a lie, they often speak the lie faster than they should. With humans there is always a pause.\n“My key works,” Samantha said. No change of emotion, no reason to get worked up over this new security bug, “I’ll just come in and check myself.”\n“I’d really rather you did not.”\nSamantha pulled her red sleeve back again and placed the heel of her palm directly on the center of the probing orb. With her other arm she removed the hood from her head and leaned forward until her forehead rested on the back of her hand. With concentration, something she was not able to do until recently, the bolts retracted in their cylindrical sleeves and the cherry wood slabs, still smelling of varnish and oils, separated at the center and folded inwards into the grand foyer.\nShe stepped through the doors onto the marble floor. Three scanners logged the incoming visitor and immediately the ambient temperature dropped three degrees, the floor heated by two, and the five large frames along the walls shifted from landscapes of Urmura’s farming community to family photos of the recent past, all with a smiling Samantha in the center. The teal walls shifted to a salmon pink as Samantha took off the red frock coat and placed it on the seat of a high backed chair whose only purpose it seemed was holding discarded outerwear.\n“Welcome, Samantha. It is so good to have you back,” a different voice announced from perforated slots in the wall. This one was programmed to be soft and matronly, but the hard consonants caused almost imperceptible feedback that made Samantha’s skin crawl.\n“Where is she?”\n“She’s in bed. Would you like me to prepare you some dinner? I could hydrate some braised lamb shanks for you -”\n“I thought they were extinct.”\n“Oh they are, and by order of bioethics law 312b we’re not allowed to clone, if that is what you are worried about, these are from laboratory extracted stem cells. The meat was manufactured at Le Cuisine Iplante in Dechland.”\n“No, I’m not hungry.” Samantha turned the corner away from the kitchen and began walking down the high arched hallway. The wall’s color shifted as she passed.\n“Are you sure?” The voice followed. “The lady of the house has plenty of – “\n“No. Disengage. Set to manual.” With a faint clicking the speakers turned off, the walls shifted back to teal, and the frames lining the walls faded to blank canvas. Samantha walked over to one of the frames, placed the heel of her hand to the top right corner, and then with a brief fluttering of her eyelids, turned all the pictures back to landscapes of the surrounding moons. She removed her hand and continued walking towards the end of the hall where one large mahogany door, product 56MG9 of the home furnishings line, was closed and shadowed. She arrived, knocked, and then when there was no answer knocked again. “Grandma?” she said through the thick door. “Grandma, are you in there?”\nShe tried the hand sensor, it didn’t trigger and the door remained shut. She pushed with her shoulder, but knew before exerting any real effort that this wouldn’t work, and finally went back to knocking. “Grandma? Your safety doors told me you weren’t home, but I think that was just a bug in the system. Are you in there?” When again there was no answer Samantha turned to leave. As she did so a ball of vibrating fluff wound itself around her front leg. “Maxwell!” she shrieked and squatted down to greet the cat. The cat, a black, oversized devon rex, curled around her laced boots, and stopped to pat at the untying knots. “Where’s Grandma, Maxwell?”\nMaxwell looked up; his satellite-dish sized ears twitched and bowed forward, but said nothing. Instead he sat on his haunches and swiped one paw through a looped shoelace and drew it towards his mouth.\n“No eating my shoes, Maxie.” Samantha picked up the cat and then stood and faced the locked door. “How would you get in to see Grandma?” she asked. Maxwell let out a soft meow, and pressed his paw into Samantha’s cheek, extending and retracting the claws. “That’s not a bad idea,” Samantha said and tucked the cat under her left arm. She reached out with her right arm, heel to the door, and placed her forehead on the back of her hand. “Now, you’re going to have to be quiet while I try this,” she said to Maxwell, who answered with gentle purr.\nAnother bit of concentration, some fluttering of eyelids, the bolt disengaged within the lock, and the handleless door swung noiselessly inwards on hydraulic hinges. Samantha placed Maxwell on the floor. He took a few steps forward, seemed to smell or sense something odd, and then retreated back between her feet.\n“What is it, Maxie?” She took a step forward and then was washed in the sense of being stared at. “Disengage. Set to manual,” she said to the room, but the feeling didn’t subside. “Grandma?” Her voice was losing its lack of emotion; fear-tinged anxiety was creeping into her throat. “Grandma? It’s me.”\nNo answer. Not that this was unlike her grandma, a woman known for retreating into near hibernation after being exposed to too much public. A woman who, if given the opportunity, and she had, would readily choose to purchase and live her life through catalogs, then ever step foot in a living breathing world. Samantha walked further into the room. The cathedral ceilings opened three stories above her, lined with digitized stained glass that transformed into elaborate etchings of the current seasonal moon. Patterned light swept around the floor and buried itself into the cloned arctic cat fur rug, product 9PFGx8 of the not so legal Spring line, and overtop Maxwell who stretched himself out in front of Samantha’s feet as if trying to block her path.\n“What is it, Maxwell? Did grandma make you eat that hybrid dolphin meal again?” She tried to laugh, but when she picked the cat up her thumb grazed a metal protrusion that jutted out like a ninth nipple. “Maxwell?” she asked as she lifted the cat’s belly to eye level. “What happened to – “\n“In here,” a familiar voice called from behind a row of wood and rice paper shoji screens, product SC4234c and currently sold out in the Lower Francatta District, that lined the archway of a corner room.\nSamantha placed Maxwell back onto the floor and walked in that direction. “Grandma?”\n“Yes, dear. Come here, come here. Let me look at you.”\nSamantha heard a slight echo that made her skin ripple, but figured it was the acoustics in this marble-walled room. “Grandma, I just came from East Slendal. I’ve got the new catalogues, the Middle Winter line of next year. I thought you would like to see them before they were put to broadcast – “\n“Yes, yes, dear. Of course.” The voice rose a bit behind the screens. “But come here first. I want to see you.”\nSamantha reached the screens, the thin paper allowed the outline of a shadowed four poster bed. She placed one hand on the ancient wood, readying herself to slide it sideways when Maxwell let out a long feral hiss.\n“What is it, boy?” Samantha asked the cat.\n“Never mind him,” said the voice behind the screen. “He’s been acting strange ever since he came back from being … um… ever since he came back from the veterinarian.”\nSamantha paused, her hand still on the screen. “You were going to say something else. He’s been acting weird since he came back from being what, grandma?”\n“From being phased,” the voice replied with no hesitation. “I know how you dislike animals going through matter transport. I didn’t want to tell you, that’s all.”\n“But why was he at the vet’s?” Samantha looked down to Maxwell who was arching his back and walking in a limping cagey circle.\n“Oh, you know how cats are, dear, always getting their nose where they don’t belong.”\n“But, what happened?”\n“Never mind the cat, Samantha,” the voice snapped. “Let your grandma see you. It’s been too long.”\nIt had only been three weeks since Samantha’s last catalog delivery, but maybe time moved differently for older people. Or maybe she was really going as crazy as the tabloids were saying. Samantha brushed that aside and slid the collapsible screen to the left. The room was how she remembered it. Dark hued rugs, most of them from product lines now discontinued, lay in no particular order over stained macassar ebony flooring. The walls were draped with fabrics woven in cities that no longer existed, and large chandeliers made of polished bone and crystal dangled from yards of titanium chains. Cords of silent FIPEL lights glowed a soft white from under hand-carved crown molding, and a bladeless fan oscillated quietly from a ceiling ledge. In the center of the room flanked by matching end tables a massive Queen Eletrante four poster bed, carved from a single blue saple tree, stood with its headboard pressed against the marble wall. On top of the bed, covered with the only thing Samantha didn’t remember, a brown and grey cryto-fur blanket, product CFI890, was her grandma propped up on two oversized goose feather pillows, and smiling a toothy grin.\n“Well, just look at you!” her grandma said. “It has been ages!”\n“It’s only been a few weeks.”\n“Well you look like you’ve grown. And, my how pretty you’ve gotten.”\nThe closer Samantha was to the voice the more her skin crawled up her neck. “Grandma?”\n“Yes, dear?”\n“You sound different.”\n“Different?” her grandma asked and punctuated the question with a stifled yawn. “Dear, that’s just because I’m tired. I must be coming down with something. Got it from the delivery drone probably.”\nSamantha crossed the room, her Manlo Blahnik ankle boots sinking a good two inches into the thick rug. Normally she would sit on the edge of the bed, having to get a running start to traverse the forty inch height, but today she subconsciously kept her distance. “How would a robot pass a bug?”\nA glint in her grandma’s eye at the double meaning, and then her grandma laughed, open mouthed and toothy. A silver refraction of the soft lights refracted from the inside of a flappy cheek. To Samantha it almost looked exactly like the CL logo. “Grandma, your teeth. They’re -”\n“Whitened, dear.” Her mouth shut, the words slipping through pursed lips. “I hate to admit it, but your grandma has gotten rather vain in her old age.” The laugh again. This time it was clapped shut with an aged hand over her mouth. Blue veins pulsed next to purplish age spots.\nMaxwell swirled a figure eight between Samantha’s feet. She reached down, picked up the cat and stroked its back. Her thumb found the metal nub on his belly again. “Grandma, what happened to Max?”\n“I told you, dear. He was phased. That’s why he’s acting -”\n“No, grandma. Not that. What happened to him? Why did he have to go to the vet?”\n“Maxwell got into the pantry, dear. That’s all.” Her grandma patted the bed beside her. “Come sit by your grandma, it’s been so long.” Another smile. Another shimmer of the CL logo.\n“He’s always getting into the pantry. That doesn’t answer my question.” Samantha scratched the cat between his shoulder blades, and he rolled over in her arms exposing his soft belly. She touched the metal nipple; it slid part way forward like the power switch on a toy.\n“Don’t!” Her grandma nearly shot out of the bed. She was on her knees at the end of the oversized king mattress; her arm draped around one ornate post. “Don’t push that button!”\nSamantha recoiled and nearly dropped the cat. “Button?! Why does Maxwell have a button?!”\n“He’s been reanimated.”\n“Reanimated? That’s illegal!”\nHer grandmother sat back on her haunches. Samantha noticed each eye was dilated differently. One open and closed in spasms like an electromechanical autofocus in a camera lens. “I know it is, dear, but I knew you’d be upset if I just let him… well…”\n“Die?! What happened?” Samantha was looking into the cat’s eyes. Maxwell yawned and brushed one paw against her chin.\n“The pantry. He must have been curious, and you know what that does to cats.” She laughed. “Somehow the shelving shifted. It’s that darn smart-sort. It must have a bug. It shifted while he was in there and his head was wedged between the grate and the gearbox. I don’t think he suffered, and look at him, he’s perfectly normal now.”\nMaxwell arched his back to expose his belly again.\n“But what about the button?” Samantha asked, more curious than horrified at this point.\n“On off switch. In case of bugs, or to save battery, or if we get tired of him. You know, it just puts him in hibernetic stasis until he’s switched on again.”\n“Then why were you so against me pushing it?”\n“It hasn’t fully been tested. He’s sort of a guinea pig, I suppose. If you shut him off his, for lack of a better term, personality may not come back.”\n“You mean – ?”\n“Yes dear, if you shut him off the Maxwell you know may be dead forever.”\n“Then what comes back? If Maxwell is dead, then what’s there when you press the on button?”\nHer grandmother just smiled a full mouth of brilliantly white teeth.\nSamantha retreated a few steps until her back was to the marble wall. “Who did this, grandma? Who has the tech to pull this off?”\nHer grandma, with agility far unexpected of a woman of her age, maneuvered her way to the edge of the bed, and swung her legs over the side. “Why, CL Corp of course. That’s where I got this lovely throw blanket. They’ll be offering their reanimation services in their New Second Fall catalogue in two years. Once the laws are overturned by the bioethics committee of course.”\nSamantha’s free hand went to her front pocket which held the micro bulletin projector. “But, grandma. Canis Lupos Corp is a Rubra Corp rival; it’s your rival.”\n“Just because my name is on the side of the building doesn’t mean I can’t try out the competitor’s product.” Her grandma laughed, and stood up from the bed.\n“Grandma? Are you … taller?”\n“So nice of you to notice, dear. Yes. I may be just a bit taller since the last time you saw me.”\nSamantha looked down at the cat in her hands. A few centimeters away from the metal nub a faint silver branding stood out from beneath the hair. If she turned her head it almost looked like the CL logo.\n“It has something to do with the spine,” her grandma continued. “Gravity has a way of bending us old folks over, you know. Years and years of constantly being pulled downwards.” She laughed again. Her eyes, the pupils dancing like rapid fireworks, closed to slits. “They were nice enough to straighten that out when I went in for the procedure.”\n“Procedure?”\n“Yes, dear. Product 7c666R. It cost almost my entire savings, but I must say it’s been worth every penny. Although, they were nice enough to throw in the cat for free.”\nShe was close to Samantha now, so close Samantha could see the augmented wrinkles next to her eyes, the nearly flawless complexion, and veinless sclera. The lips, wearing Product 427B peeled back to show teeth as white as the marble walls.\n“You were reani -” but before she could finish the statement a backhand swept across Samantha’s face. Stars burst like poppies in her vision, and then everything went black. Maxwell dropped from her arms and scuttled away with a hiss as Samantha fell bonelessly to the floor.\nAs she came to a few moments later Samantha looked up from her back as the ceiling and walls around her changed from teal to salmon pink. Her arm was outstretched above her hand and firmly grasped by one of her grandma’s cold dry hands. Her grandma walked forward, her back to Samantha, dragging her granddaughter’s body behind her. Fuzzy perception clouded Samantha’s head, reason and understanding struggling for a foothold. She blacked out again just as the fur of the cloned arctic cat rug brushed the back of her bare legs.\nImages of a dark box operated by robots in wolf skin flashed in a dream, and then Samantha awoke to find herself propped up in the corner of the elevator. Her grandma, or whatever was left her, stood in front of her. The old woman’s back pressed firmly into Samantha’s chest. The lift descended, not stopping for over 150 floors when it gently slowed to a halt. The light labeled 216 glowed as the doors parted. Samantha could feel the thing in front of her tense, but could make no noise as all air was pushed out of her.\n“Oh, uh, hello Mrs Rubra,” a meek voice, familiar in its nervousness, said. “I’m, um, sorry if I stopped you from leaving. Here… um, let me get the door.”\nThere was a pause. The doors remained open. Samantha tried to yell for help, but the woman in front of her pressed back even more nearly crushing her sternum.\n“I’m sorry, Mrs Rubra, I … uh … see this palm pass was supposed to be updated but it wasn’t and … um… are you okay? Is that someone behind you?”\nThe body in front of her shifted forward just enough that Samantha was able to fill her lungs with air.\n“Mrs Rubra?! Stop! I… I … I don’t think you should -!” the man shouted. There was a reprieve of pressure, and then a force of both her grandmother and the stranger came toppling back on top of her. Samantha’s head swung backwards and connected with the brass railing. For the third time today she lost consciousness.\nThis time when she came to she was still on the floor, but propped in a sitting position. A crowd of shadowed faces stood outside the elevator doors, and a crumpled heap lay next to her. Squatting down in front of her and pressing a gentle hand against her cheek was a grey haired man wearing a matching grey suit.\n“Miss Rubra? Are you… um… are you okay?” the voice asked from behind kind eyes.\nSamantha rubbed the back of her head. When her hand returned it was covered in blood the same color as her coat which was still on the chair in her grandmother’s foyer. At the thought of her grandmother she started, and shifted away from the body beside her. “Grandma?” Then to the grey man. “My grandma she’s a… she’s a -”\n“I’m sorry to tell you this, Miss Rubra, but your grandmother has passed away.” He nodded towards the old woman. “I don’t know when exactly, but this woman here,” he poked the heap with a weathered finger. “This is a CL re-anny,” and then added almost apologetically, “She tried to strangle me. I had to push the off button. There was nothing else I could do. I’m sorry.”\n“How did you know?” Samantha asked.\n“I had a dog. Actually my kids had a dog. It was an ugly mess of a mutt, but my kids loved him. He was hit by a transbooster a week ago. I had read Canis Lupos Corp was experimenting with reanimation in animals, so Ii took him over to see what they could do. About twelve hours later I got the dog back nearly good as new. I used the bonus I got along with this promotion to pay for it.” His cheeks reddened. “Anyway, my daughter, Gretchen, she likes to push buttons. She gets it from me I guess. We had the dog for all of twenty minutes when she flipped the switch on his belly. The kids started crying. Gretchen thought she had killed Wiggles, that was his name; Wiggles. She thinks she killed Wiggles, so I say no, it’s okay. I just need to flip the switch back. But when I do,” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t Wiggles anymore, if you know what I mean.”\nSamantha rubbed her head again, and wiped the blood off on her skirt. She knew exactly what he meant. “Thank you for saving me Mr…”\n“Huntsman. John Huntsman, ma’am.” He extended his hand and helped Samantha to her feet.\n“Thank you, Mr Huntsman.”\n“No problem, Miss Rubra, and if it’s okay with you I can take this,” he nudged the body of Samantha’s grandma with his foot. “I can take her to the maintenance office and have her decommissioned.”\nSamantha nodded her approval.\n“And then I can get you over to sickbay to have that head looked at,” he said.\n“I would appreciate that, thank you.”\nSamantha swiped her palm across the sensor, and Mr Huntsman pushed a button to shut the elevator doors, leaving the onlookers on the side. Just before he pressed the button for the sub-basement Samantha reached out a hand and put it on his shoulder.\n“Before we go,” she said. “Can we go back to the cottage? I need to pick up my coat … and my cat.”\n\n^^^^.\n^^^^."
}
] |
3434 | 16 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "I picked up a mug, and everything changed; now I'm John Smith."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "I never really thought it would happen, all though all things considered I suppose I should have expected it to. I suppose some explanation should be given, oh where to start. There’s a theory out there, a multiverse theory. The basic idea is that for every variable, err, thing someone does, an alternate dimension is created at that moment where that doesn’t happen, or happens in a different way. Let me give you an example. Let’s say I pick up a mug. Now doing that has created an alternate universe where I didn’t pick up the mug, or I picked up the mug with a different hand, or I used 4 fingers instead of five, it goes on and on. Combine that phenomenon with every action a human does in their life, times all the people on the planet, and combine that with whatever the fuck is out in space, and you have infinite universes. It’s an interesting theory and, sans a brain tumor, it’s the best way I can explain the current events. \n\nYou see I still live with my parents, and I know what you’re saying “Oh a mid twenties white nerd who lives with his parents how cliche” and to that I have to say yeah, yeah it really is. But anyway this isn’t about how cliche and depressing my life was, it’s about how cliche and depressing my life has become. Today I was awoken very rudely by my father shaking a baseball bat at my face and yelling profanities at me. Which is weird because he doesn’t do that. Not normally anyway, or well, not my dad. It turns out, I’m not really Quincy Donovan, I’m John Smith. Literally that’s what it says on my drivers license. “John Smith”. So anyway, my once dad now assailant is asking who the fuck I am, and i’m shouting ‘your son moron!’ and he’s very confused as his only son, Quincy Donovan, is 10. \n\nI acted as naturally as possible and lept out of bed. The first thing I noticed is that, while this was definitely my room, it’s significantly different now. In that other than the grey walls, there’s only a bed. And not the bed I went to bed in. I booked it out of the house as fast as possible to find a newspaper, as my head went to thoughts of ‘i’ve time traveled.’ But as you might be able to gather from the opening, I haven’t time traveled, the newspaper, which was hard as hell to find, read off the same date and year as it would of been had i went to bed yesterday, which I did. It was still 2014, but I was somehow 10. \n\nSo I know what’s happened, probably. But I mean, how? I went to bed, and woke up in a universe where I do exist but don’t exist? Am I John Smith because i’ve traveled into a universe where Quincy Donovan is 10? Or has there always been a John Smith who looks exactly like me in this universe? How did I get here? How do I get back? Unfortunately there’s not exactly a dimension hopper anonymous I can go to for advice. I checked into a motel, so I’d have a place to stay during all this madness. I’m getting a migraine just thinking about all this. \n\nI think I’m going to find my friends, and see if they know John Smith. Or maybe I’ve lost all of them too. Who knows, there is indeed an infinite amount of possibilities. So I guess you all know why I’m telling you this. Y’all seem like science nuts. Do you think you could help me? Like, at all? As you might be able to tell, living in a motel not knowing what’s going on is nuts. Shit man. I’m going to go to the doctors and see if it’s just something wrong with my mind, but I don’t think I’ll be that lucky."
}
] |
1135 | 0 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"As I await my demise, I wonder: will I dance or drift forever?\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "Quantum mechanics is often non-intuitive. Take positrons. Predicted by Paul Dirac a century ago, they are the 'opposite' of electrons. If a positron hits an electron, they both dissapear in a burst of energy. On the other hand, energy can be turned into a pair, an electron and a positron, which fly off from each other.\nSomeone realized that you can look at it another way; if you take the equation for an electron and make time negative, 'reverse' the flow of time, you get the equation for a positron.\nThis means that you can think of positrons as electrons moving backwards in time. When an electron hits a positron and disappears, it really just takes a sharp turn and starts travelling into the past. When it starts going forward in time again, it looks like a positron and an electron came out of nowhere.\nIt's just one point of view, one I agree with. I believe that some electrons just bounce back and forth forever in time, taking many roles, part of you, part of me, in an eternal dance; others escape the dance forever, travelling alone in the cold vacuum of space.\nTonight at 5 pm, my life will end in a brilliant burst."
}
] |
9960 | 19 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I reach up to wipe the grime from her eyelid, and my hand lingers, my heart pounding with the question: why do we fight?\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "“Look, I’m just saying, isn’t it kind of funny they look like disembodied pocket watches? Don’t you feel like one of the mice?” MacDern asked from his crouch, left hand gesticulating madly in an attempt to compensate for the steady right. With the right hand, he was applying steady pressure to a large brass screw deep inside the heart of the electromagnetic field repeater.\nAt that last comment, Wills brought her eyes away from the enhancement goggles to cast a confused glance at MacDern. “What mice?”\nHe looked up at her, squinting against the high noon sun. “Hickory, Dickory, and Doc. The ones that ran up the clock.”\nShe smiled and put the enhancement goggles back to her eyes, scanning the horizon for Abberants. “Remember, Terry, they got their tails cut off with a butcher knife.”\n“Carving knife.”\nShe grunted. “Close enough. No one likes a know-it-all.”\n“Some of us like to use the knowledge we learned in school, my dear protector.”\n“Some of us like to keep some brain room free for fighting, my annoying technician.”\nMacDern stood, grimacing and shaking out his strained thighs. Wills dropped her goggles into her pouch and nodded at MacDern, who nodded back.\n“Your en-gogs left a smudge,” MacDern said softly. He reached up to Wills’s bottom eyelid and gently wiped some of the grime away. She didn’t move away, just held his gaze with hers. Wills’s slight smile faded as his hand came back, this time brushing the side of her neck just above her high military collar.\n“No,” she said, almost a whisper. “It was one time, Terry. And even if it wasn’t wrong, even if we wouldn’t be disciplined, we can’t think about any kind of normal life now. The Abberants destroyed Manhattan last week. Cairo two nights ago. They’re more bloodthirsty than ever.”\n“You don’t have to tell me how goddamn bloodthirsty those fuckers are, Wills. For all we know, I could be the last living Scottish person in the history of the world. A thousand, or five thousand, or who knows how many years of history gone – left to be carried on by one thirty year old technician who can’t even get laid.”\n“I didn’t mean –“\n“Wait, Wills. I’m not done. In spite of all that – in spite of my family and my friends and my bloody country dying while I watched from the back of an old, piece of shit Osprey that barely stayed in the air – I know that it’s human things that count. Not just living, but being human. Joking, laughing, smelling your hair that morning when we woke up.\n“Why do we fight, Wills? Are we brainless creatures like spiders and roaches who run from danger just because it’s our instinct, or do we fight so we can have the lives we used to? Lives that meant something. Something more than tinkering with a bloody pocket watch and scanning the hills for Abberants which we know won’t come out ‘til night.”\nMacDern’s eyes were wet now. Wills opened her mouth to say something, but, afraid her voice would crack and let flow the overwhelming emotion she was just barely keeping contained, she didn’t. Instead, Wills buttoned her en-gog pouch and adjusted the EM rifle on her shoulder. MacDern turned away and silently gathered his tools.\n“Wills! MacDern!” a booming voice called from further down the wall.\nWills stood to attention and snapped her hand up in salute. MacDern remained crouched over his tools for a moment, placing sunglasses over his bloodshot eyes. A powerfully built blonde man trotted toward them atop a large horse. He smoothed down his mustache as he rode.\n“Colonel, good afternoon. How’s the east wall, sir?”\n“Getting there, Lieutenant. They don’t have a MacDern over there, so synchronization is taking a little longer.” He turned his attention to the now standing MacDern, “Chief, good to have you in the conversation. All finished?”\n“Yes, sir. Would you like to run through the synchronization test?”\n“Indeed I would, MacDern,” he said, reaching into a saddlebag behind him. “I brought arc helmets for you both so we could begin straight away.”\nAfter securing their ablative gear, Wills walked briskly to an EMF repeater further down the wall. “On my mark!” the Colonel shouted.\n“Three! Two! One! Mark!”\nWith that, Wills and the Colonel each flipped a switch on the side of the EMF repeaters. A blast of electricity arced between them, the air smelling instantly of ozone as the plasma discharge burned the air. The blast was easily twice as powerful as it had been the week earlier.\nAs Wills walked back, the Colonel was loosening his helmet and grinning widely. He shook MacDern’s hand vigorously. “Good fucking job, MacDern! Good bloody show! That’ll blast those metal twats right out of the sky. Go get yourselves some chow. Wait!” he pulled his holographic ID card out of his breast pocket. “Go get some chow from the officer’s mess. The cook from Chicago is making deep dish pizza to order; any topping we have, you can put in that bowl of dough. I probably gained ten pounds the last time we had that special.”\n*****\nWills couldn’t sleep. She and MacDern had eaten lunch together and it had been fun; full of the usual joking and good conversation, the strain from earlier set aside. But now, in her lonely quarters, MacDern’s words came back to her. Why did she fight? She tried to take her mind off the question by watching a DVD, reading, or listening to music, but the origin of all those items intruded on the escapism they provided. Each one had been scavenged from one of the old cities. Most of the items available to her at Fort Black Kettle had been found in nearby Boulder. Each one was now a limited edition. She looked at the plastic case for the Amazing Spiderman 3 that lay near her DVD player, fully aware that there would never be a sequel.\nWhy did she fight? To watch Pineapple Express and read Fables and listen to the Bravery? Or just to live?\nWhy did humanity fight? Did they actually think they could beat back the Abberants and restart civilization? Or did they just want to keep fucking and birthing and killing and dying; the meaning of life explained by so much bodily fluid?\nWills wanted to walk the short distance to MacDern’s quarters where he was likely fighting insomnia, as well. She wanted to tell him that she fought because she liked feeling, she liked being a human. But then, with her hand on the doorknob, she wondered if that was true. Or did she just tell herself it was to justify continued existence? Maybe this fight was useless; maybe every loss was a needless pain. If humanity was destined to die out, a mass suicide would be preferable to this fighting hell.\nCould humanity win? When the Abberants first attacked, they were clunky and easily defeated. There weren’t many of them. The world governments initially thought they were fighting an alien ground invasion. By the time they realized they were fighting nanomachines created by the US government, the Abberants had almost been eradicated. The last remnants had been pushed back to East Asia where a combined force of the American, British, Israeli, Russian, and Chinese militaries had them cornered between large artillery and the South China Sea. There, the Abberants had found an artificial intelligence developed by the Chinese military. Up to that point, the Abberants were running on a war algorithm that was difficult, but possible to trick. After incorporating the AI, the Abberants were unstoppable. What parts of cities they didn’t destroy, they consumed and used to build reinforcements. They had taken many forms before finally deciding on the Abberants everyone knew and feared today. Wills thought of the dragon-like beings the Abberants had become. Why dragons?\nThe klaxon exploded into sound without warning, interrupting Wills's thoughts. The Abberants had been sighted. In moments, all power to Fort Black Kettle would be diverted to the EM array. It was the first line of defense against the Abberants. Most times, upwards of half their number fell out of the sky when the EM blast was triggered, leaving few to be finished off by Wills and other troops with their EM rifles. With the modifications MacDern had made to the field, none should get through. It would be a quiet night again in no time.\nWills put on her combat uniform and ablative gear, grabbed her rifle, and stepped out the door. MacDern was a few feet away, looking tense.\n“Ready to put the new field to the test?” Wills asked.\nMacDern smiled and nodded. They walked to the west wall.\nOnce there, they could see hundreds of Abberants flying swiftly toward the Fort, a larger force than any intel said they should have had.\n“Jesus…” MacDern exclaimed quietly before rushing over to the EM field command bunker. Wills directed her troops to spread out along the wall. She took up a position behind them, ready to call up men from the bunkers.\nThe Abberants passed the large, white rock that marked the extent of the EM field. MacDern cried out a loud, “Now!” from his bunker. Everyone crouched, putting that much more distance between them and the dangerous electricity. The powerful blue-white blast arced through the canyon, catching the flight of Abberants in its path. Two fell. The bulk continued on.\nThe EM field blasted again, hotter than before, hot enough that some of metal rails on the wall turned red. One more Abberant tumbled down. Wills ordered her troops to fire. Two thousand EM rifles and a dozen EM anti-air guns brought down a handful of the beasts.\nThe Abberants launched their assault. Liquid fire spewed from inside their metal jaws, charring flesh and melting metal. Wills ordered her line to hold.\nHell had broken out all around her, but Wills refused to yield. Her reinforcements had been depleted. The last of the line were falling as she watched. Still she fired.\n“Wills!” came a shout from behind her. She turned to see MacDern, covered in black soot, cradling a badly burned arm.\n“I love you, Terry,” she said.\n“I love you.”\nAs Fort Black Kettle razed around them, they shared a third and final kiss and never parted."
}
] |
5443 | 19 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I see exactly when and how they die; what if I touched the wrong person?\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "Well, not really, but I know how people die. I can see it happen. It's quite possibly one of the worst super powers anyone could have. \n\nMy family is old, ancient even, dating back to a Celtic Tribe in present-day Scotland. When you're born, you're given an \"ability\", every member of the bloodline is given one upon the first completed moon cycle after their birth. I told you this shit was ancient. My older brother got Heart (he's one of the top child Psychologists in the country now), my youngest brother got Earth (he has the best tomatoes you have ever tasted in your life), my cousins received the others such as Light, Beast, Sight, Yew (tree), etc. To fill the quota; there must be at least nine children for every generation so each ability is fully realized. \n\nI got death. Yeah. It's a thing. I'm not happy about it either. \n\nI can't touch people without seeing exactly when and how they die. This really killed my dating experience as a teenager. Imagine being sixteen years old, having a coffee with a girl, and as you reach out to hold her hand for the first time, your fingers touch, and \"HOLY SHIT STOP DOING METH ALREADY\"\nIt doesn't usually go over well. Although over the years I've learned to control it, I've kept my romantic life at bay. My mistake for even trying. Since I was little, I've avoided all contact with people and animals (GOD animals are the worst, I petted a dog *once* and instantly discovered its owners were abusive assholes...poor dog). I've chocked it up to OCD, germophobia, whatever you want to call it, I just don't touch living things anymore. \n\nMy parents and elders continue to remind me that \"this is a blessed gift\". I haven't felt so \"blessed\" lately. Quite frankly, I'm starting to freak out. I think the wrong person knows of my \"blessed gift\" and wants to use me for their gain. \n\nI was at the bar the other night with some friends, and by friends I mean the usuals at the bar. It's hard to make friends with other girls when you refuse to hug. It's hard to make friends with guys when you refuse contact sports. I had a few friends growing up, we bonded over video games, the perfect social outlet for someone with my gift/condition. So in my twenties, I've become a recluse nerd, I guess those go hand-in-hand nicely. Anyways, I was at the bar when someone sat next to me. He ordered a whiskey and coke and took out a cigarette. \n\n\"Can I borrow that lighter?\" He asked me with the cigarette dangling from his mouth, looking at the lighter on the bar in front of me. \n\n\"You know, if you ordered better bourbon you wouldn't need the coke.\" I said, passing him the lighter.\n\n\"Oh yeah? You know your bourbons?\"\n\n\"Sure. I guess. As much as anyone around here should.\" I took a drag from my own cigarette.\n\n\"Name's John.\" He extended his hand.\n\n\"Sara.\" I said without acknowledging the hand, staring into the TV.\n\nHe was very adamant to talk to me. I thought the \"I'm not gonna shake your hand or make eye contact\" was the universal sign for \"Fuck Off\". After a few more of my own bourbons, I opened up a bit. Turns out we had quite a bit in common. We went to the same college, rooted for the same NHL team and we ended up in a very intense and deep discussion concerning Gwahir from Lord of the Rings. \n\n\"No, no, no\" John half-drunkenly stammered, \"The Eagles aren't what people think they are. They're not just *birds*. GOD - they're those...ya know...spirit things, like Gandalf...kinda...yeah.\"\n\nI stared at him for three seconds before bursting out laughing. \n\n\"Well put, sir, well put.\" I said, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. That's when I knew it was time to go.\n\n\"Conor? Close out my tab. Or not. You know I'll be here tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Oh c'mon!\" John protested \"I thought we were really getting somewhere- we barely touched on the movies...you gotta stay.\"\n\n\"Like I said, I'll be back tomorrow.\" I started to get up from my chair.\n\n\"Look, I can't be here tomorrow, but at least take my number - not like that or anything - just cause I want to talk to you again, we have to finish this conversation.\" He started writing it down on a bar nap.\n\nI looked him up and down, he was a fun guy...but I always know how this ends and it's not well. \n\n\"Please?\" He reached out to put the napkin in my hand and before I could recoil-\n\n*In a room, alone. Quiet. Sterile. Hospital? Hospice? White everywhere, blue neon orbs hovered in mid-air and tubes traveled into veins. One breath. Flat line.* \n\nBack in the bar. His hand was inches from mine, the napkin in my hand. He looked directly into my eyes.\n\n\"What did you see?\"\n\n\"WHAT? I mean- what? No. What are you talking-\"\n\n\"I know who you are. You have to come with me.\"\n\n\"FUCK NO\"\n\nI grabbed my shit and high-tailed out of there. I ran to the street, stole a cab from a group of people and I shouted at them \"IT'S AN EMERGENCY\" as I closed the door.\n\n\"743 Charles. As fast as you can please. Speeding is not an issue for me.\" I grabbed my phone out of my purse, ready to call my brother.\n\n\"Well, it should be, dear. It can be very dangerous out here.\"\n\n\"Don't lecture me, please, I just want to- holy fuck.\"\n\n*It was John* I swear it was him. I didn't take another look back before I flung myself out of the moving taxi. \n\nI walked the rest of the way home, stayed on the main streets until I had to turn into mine, and bolted for the door. I called my brother several times, he's going to wake up tomorrow to some really angry voicemails."
}
] |
9341 | 7 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "I shift from one foot to the other, my oversized boots making me uncomfortable, as I realize \"they never take care of the roads here... not enough tourism in the ghetto I guess...\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": " Barnes shifted from one foot to the other. His feet slid around in his boots and made him uncomfortable. This was the first time he was ever asked to suit up and his riot gear was oversized, clearly a leftover set from the officer he had replaced last year. By all accounts of the word, Jon Barnes was attractive. He had a clear complexion, blue eyes, and his blonde hair was always neat and trim. He was the sort that would be featured in a cop movie as he had often daydreamed about. A bead of sweat ran down his face as the van hit a pothole. *They never take care of the roads here... not enough tourism in the ghetto I guess....*\n\t\n “ALRIGHT! LISTEN UP!”\n\t\n Barnes could barely see the chief through the tangle of men and pads. Bill O'Hara resembled a walrus: overweight, short, and with a big fuzzy mustache. Barnes had only been in Detroit for a year and he didn't really like O'Hara, but that was alright with him because the feeling was mutual. \n\t\n “We've had reports of missing persons from this neighborhood. Last night a witness called and reported our most recent missing person, one Anthony Jackson, wandering into an alleyway next to his building. The witness said he saw a fire burning in the alley and could make out the shadows of at least 3 men. Shots were reportedly fired and somebody snuffed out the-WALKER! ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?”\n\t\n The other rookie, sitting across from Barnes, held a silver crucifix necklace in front of his mouth while muttering a prayer. Realizing the Chief had called him out he shot up in his seat.\n “S-s-sorry chief” Walker sputtered kissing the cross and stuffing it under his chest armor. \n Barnes never really had a chance to familiarize himself with Walker, not that he really wanted to. All the religious mumbo-jumbo seemed crazy to Barnes who had never been religious himself. Walker's father had been a Pastor in Detroit and was gunned down about 10 years ago for the donation box. He was the whole reason Walker joined the force, or so Barnes had heard.\n\t\n “We're here” O'Hara said with a glance out the back window, “we continue on foot from here. Watch your angles and cover each other. Got it? I want the rookies in back, take notes on how we handle this.” O'Hara opened the door and jumped out.\n\t\n The other men filed out of the back of the van and counted off. Walker had his cross out again and was looking up at the sky, a few of the men had cash out and were making bets on who would fire a shot first. It was like watching a teacher trying to line up a kindergarten class Barnes thought, these men didn't take the job as seriously as O'Hara did.\n\t\n The night felt crisp, cool, and refreshing to the men after the long hot ride from the station in their full gear. This was a bad neighborhood, just about as bad as they get. In this one borough there were more break-ins, muggings, and violent crimes than most small cities. 3 blocks down and across the street an alleyway could be seen with the glow of a brightly burning fire. This wasn't a rare occurrence in the city, the homeless often lit fires in barrels to keep warm through the colder nights. What Barnes noticed however, is how eerily quiet it was, as if somebody had put a thick glass dome over the neighborhood to block out the city sounds. \n They moved out in single file down the street checking each alleyway as they passed. 3 blocks felt like 3 miles in the oversized gear Barnes was wearing. No matter how long they walked the alley seemed farther away every time he looked up.\n\t\n Barnes' mind drifted back to his mother, worried about him taking a job in Detroit as a cop. \n \"I DON'T WANT MY BABY KILLED BY SOME HOODLUM WHEN HIS FATHER OFFERED HIM A GOOD JOB HERE!\" He could still hear the tears she was choking back even while yelling at him. Barnes' father was well known in Topeka: 5 time winner of the Auto Salesman of the Year Award, and well-liked by the town. \n \"I can't spend my whole life in this town Mom! There is far too much out there to see! If I can just work this job in Detroit for 3 years they said I can transfer wherever I want, I need this, please believe in me.\"\n\t\n Barnes shook his head. He had no time to think about this. He had to keep his eyes open and watch for- Was that motion? He could swear he saw a shadow dart into the next alleyway.\n\t\n “O'Hara! I saw something! Watch your right side up ahead.” Barnes put his hand on his firearm ready to draw as their line made it to the alley. O'Hara crept up to the corner, sucked in his gut so he could tuck up to the wall and peeked around it. With a big sigh Barnes could see his belly suddenly reach full mass again.\n\t\n “I said take notes rook, you actually had me worried a moment there” \n\t\n As Barnes walked by the alley he could see a cat hissing from behind a trashcan about 5 feet in. *Keep your head straight Jon, this is no time to start seeing things.* \n\t\n Finally they had made it to the alleyway. O'Hara drew his sidearm and crept down the alley with the rest of the men following suit. The sidearm felt foreign in Barnes' hands. He had only ever held one in target practice at the station. He had been assigned as a desk jockey for his first 6 months and up until now had just been a meter maid. *This is your break, you can finally make a difference Jon, just foc-* motion again. He stared at where he had seen the movement, but it was just a brick wall with a shadow dancing across it from the firelight.\n\t\n They entered a dirt lot behind the building the witness had supposedly called from. A barrel could be seen burning bright right in the middle with footprints all around it in the loose dirt of the lot. A burned out car could be seen at the far end of the lot, scorched and left for what must have been years. There was no light anywhere but the fire burning, and no sign of any homeless persons camping out. This struck Barne's as odd because when he had stumbled into these sorts of places before there would always be tents, mattresses, at the very least sleeping bags and cans around. In this lot however there was nothing. There wasn't anybody in sight either, not entirely suspicious though. Most people in this city would hide if they saw a full group of riot geared police coming down the street. Somebody must have seen them coming.\n\t\n This was when Barne's noticed something odd about the barrel and more interesting, the footprints. They all seemed to be going towards the fire, but none seemed to go away from it. Suddenly more motion, Barnes could swear he saw something this time, but still, just their shadows dancing on the walls. The men searched the area and found nothing but a few broken bottles and the sleeping bag that Barnes had expected to find, but still no people. The men holstered their weapons and surrounded the fire to warm their hands.\n\t\n “Well men, seems like a wild goose chase. I thought we finally had somet-” \n\t\n “CHIEF!” Walker shouted and pointed at O'Hara's shadow against the building. “YOUR SHADOW JUST MOVED!”\n\t\n “That's enough Walker, it’s just the fire playing tricks on your eyes, get a grip.”\n\t\n Barnes turned to see what Walker had been pointing at behind O'Hara, he was right. The Chief's shadow seemed wrong, it didn't look like a man in riot gear. It almost appeared to be getting darker as it came closer. It is. It's walking towards us. \n\t\n “CHIEF YOU BETTER HAVE A LOOK AT THIS!” Barnes shouted as he drew his weapon, but he could see the Chief had a panicked look in his eyes while looking over Barnes' own shoulder. The hairs on his neck stood on end as Barnes whipped around and saw his shadow and that of several others seemingly doing the same thing. They moved at an almost leisurely pace towards them. Barnes blinked hard and stared as his heart pounded against his chest.\n\t\n “Chief, what do we do?” All the men had now drawn their weapons and turned their backs to the fire as the shadows got darker and closer. They began to take shape, they were becoming solid and jet black. “CHIEF!?”\n\t\n O'Hara took out his personal revolver and fired a shot at the shadow closest to him, the shot simply passed through it and it kept coming at him, now at least 7 feet tall and just as bulky. One shadow even appeared to be snarling. A few other men shot at their own matching shadows, but none seemed to be affected. Barnes turned to see Walker next to him once again muttering to the cross around his neck.\n\t\n “God help us.”\n\t\n Screams echoed down the alleyway as more shots were fired but in less than a minute all the sound had stopped, the flashes from the guns ceased, and the fire had been snuffed out. The night was quiet again, and it was definitely darker."
}
] |
17302 | 8 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I splash water on my face, letting the shock of the cold wake me. Today is an important day... but a weight settles in my abdomen.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "his eyes snap open. he had been dreaming. he has had this dream before, but it is already fading. next to him, glaring orange shapes mold and take form on a screen. 6:28. he lays motionless under his blankets, taking in the still. he enjoys the quiet, the nothing. today is an important day. he fixes his eyes toward the neon shapes, unblinking as they turn to shadow. he blinks and the numbers remain, ghosts lingering in his eyelids.\nthe silence was viciously torn apart by even, measured screams. the timepiece had no misgivings of its purpose. he sighs and slaps the clock on the head, cutting short its morning revelry. no more stillness. no more time for nothing. today is an important day.\nthe bathroom slowly fills with steam. the shower hisses as he stands stone as a statue in the mirror. he looks at a face which he struggles to identify as his. features beginning to show trickles of age like streams in a mountainside. eyes giving away the sleep he deprives himself for success. he splashes water on his face, letting the shock of the cold wake him. today is an important day. he can feel something bubbling within him. the relief of not struggling to pay off debts every month. the excitement of change, and all its children. but also something else, nagging at him. a weight settling in his abdomen.\nhe opens the fridge and pulls out milk. he finds it out of place to be eating cereal on today of days. he thumbs through news articles on his phone. he tries to shake the darkness inside him, a creature laying dormant. an update on stocks. more reports of bombings and warfare. he sets his phone carefully on the tabletop. not today.\nhe grabs his tokens of status: briefcase, watch, earpiece, and overcoat. he takes another look in the mirror, and with a soft sniff he is on his way. this is a ritual he has grown accustomed to, and found comfort in. yet, something is not right about today. he tries not to notice the thing that found roost in his insides, and orients his thoughts toward the day ahead. he pulls out his device. 8:27. apps. transit. nearest bus arrival, 6 minutes. his elbow jams against the stairwell door, and it reluctantly concedes. he begins the spiraling descent from his 14th floor, as he does every day. he finds comfort in the steps that resound within him, as he walks down and down.\nthe circular downward motion of his stride puts him in a trance. each floor the same as the next. faded, cement walls a dingy yellow from the old fluorescent lamps that buzz as he walks past them. door handles slick from hundreds of hands clasping them since the building’s construction, the paint around them worn. simple, plain signs show the respective floor in bold white type. all things so familiar to him that he does not notice at first when they begin to change. the man stops. something just happened. he can’t tell what, but something is not right. as if all of the lights seem to have changed composure. as if their current distribution wasn’t satisfactory. shadows now streak the walls in directions that don’t make sense. the creature in his gut gets heavier. straining against the confines of his skin. he sensed a presence, watching him. hello? his voice rings off the concrete steps and up. a lingering shadow of his tone becomes a cloud above him. he waits several beats, listening. nothing. he continues down, this time more carefully. his pulse quickens. he scans around him as he descends. everything looked the same. so why does it feel wrong? he looks at the walls. perfectly, unmistakably bland. it seems familiar, in a way he can't place. how long has he been walking? the spiraling downward hike is disorienting. he should already be on the street by now. he reaches for his phone.\n8:27.\nhe blinks, looking at it again. there it remains, the time it told him upon leaving his apartment. but how? he checks his reception. no signal. he sighs, putting it back in his coat pocket. bloody cement block i'm living in, he gripes aloud.\nturning on the landing, he spots it. there, the next floor down. there, at the place on the door where a knob should reside. nothing. like someone took an eraser to reality. no hole to be found, no conceivable way to open it. he increases his pace, eyes fixed on the blank door. he fingers the smooth area that shouldn’t be. had it been plastered and painted over? no signs of such. it makes no sense. who would build a door with no way to open it? he tentatively knocks, pressing his ear against the cold metal. he can hear each knock create a hollow moan on the other side, like a fallen book in a marble cathedral.\nhe looks at the sign beside the oddity. blank. only a blue plastic sheet on the wall, devoid of any marking. the gut monster seizes. how long had he been walking? he looks at his device again. the numbers are cycling aimlessly. 7:40, 10:58, 4:01, 84:17, 16:79. \nhe stares blankly at the jumbled numbers for a moment. his hand clumsily escorts the phone back to his coat pocket. something is very wrong.\nhe continues down the cold steps quicker now. the exit has to be just a bit further. he barely rests his feet for a sliver of a moment on each step as they flurry down. another door with no handle, and no markings. a growing layer of dust and grime begins to coat his palm as it slides along the guide rail. he must have come at least halfway down already. he decides to count as he plummets further and further from his home.\none floor. same as before. he missteps, sending his foot two steps further than intended. he gasps, steadies himself on the railing, and continues. two floors. no door at all, just a blank wall. his breathing intensifies as he hurries yet faster. four floors. This time only a door frame filled with the same discolored concrete. six floors. just a bit further, and he's sure he'll reach the end. he just got disoriented, is all. just one more floor. he clutches the rail and uses his hand as an anchor as he rushes around the final landing.\nhe takes three steps down, and stops. his hand falls limply from the rail.\nhe sits.\nstairs. more of them. just as they looked when he first entered the staircase. he could visualize the heavy grey door in front of him. he’s walked through it so many times, and yet all that lies before him is more and more of the same. how is this possible? he stares ahead, vacant. a confluence of disbelief and shock overcome him. he already went 7 floors from where he thought was halfway. how is there no exit by now?\nhe jumps up in a start, and starts running down the stairs. he takes two, three steps at a time, jumping down the last handful for each landing. he must not have gone far enough. nine floors. eleven floors. still no sign of a door worth using. twelve floors. he starts to panic. where am i? what is going on? as he dashes through the thirteenth of his count he can hear himself speaking. no, no, no, no, no, no. he’s sweating, his breathing labored.\nfourteen floors. no, no, no, no, no, no, NO-- he hurls his briefcase. it clatters against the wall, and sends its ghost of sound winding up the stairs. he paces in circles, running his hand through his hair. what kind of a building is this? did he go down the wrong stairs? he leans over the steel bar and peers down. through the slender gap between flights he searches for a ground level. floor after floor spans downward as far as his eyes will allow. a winding rectangular spiral, turning in on itself until dimensions are no longer discernable. he looks up to find the underside of the same view, ascending beyond his vision’s limit. the sight is somehow familiar.\nhe starts to feel dizzy. he sits back down. he’s had this dream before. he doesn’t understand it, but somehow he’s stumbled blindly into his own imagination. does that mean he’s dreaming now? he doesn’t feel asleep. he looks at his hands, turning them over slowly. deep creases line his palms, turning white as he flexes them. veins snake through his skin like a series of underground rivers. he wonders if hands look this real in dreams. he recalls an article he read once on lucid dreaming. something about pushing his fingers through his palms. he nervously places two fingers in the recessed center of his hand. he presses until his fingers protest. not what he wanted. he slowly puts his head between the bars next to him and looks down again. the impossible sight remained. vertigo consumes him, the endless spiral writhing below.\nhis insides rearrange themselves, and his breakfast finds a new trajectory. he watches what was cereal shrink and fall away. he wonders if it will ever find a resting place, or if it might be caught in the throes of gravity unending. a chuckle turns to a delirious giggle, head still suspended above eternity. his stomach lurches again. he withdraws himself.\nhis vision is still swimming. he presses his fingers against his temples, tracing circles. he doesn’t know why he does this. he’s not even sure it does anything. it won’t help him get out of here. how can he escape a never-ending building with no functioning doors? the thought made him shrink. a building can’t not end. sooner or later physics come into play, and usually sooner. his apartment is only so many feet above the ground. is he underground by now? is there even earth beyond the thick cement walls? he looks up at the cold gray facades. he can imagine void beyond them, dropping off into nothingness.\nhe shakes his head. no more nonsense. nothing is infinite. even the universe ends, he tells himself. beyond the scope of human exploration, maybe, but it has an end. it’s just a trick. everything must end. this staircase must have a limit, and he will find it. he inhales deeply. he stands, grabs his briefcase, and again begins his descent.\nhe keeps at a brisk pace. he's not sure how far these go, but there's no sense in taking his time. sixteen floors. faceless doors taunt him. he hops down three stairs, shoes slapping against the hard floor. eighteen floors. he pictures his boss sitting at her desk, looking at the clock. today is an important day for him. at least, it was. he was finally moving up in his workplace. he was going to be able to afford rent, better food, finally start paying debts. providing he gets out, he’s not sure he’ll get another chance for this interview, or even if he’ll keep his position. he tries to push these thoughts out his mind. not now. get out first. twenty two floors. the floor and railing are speckled with liquid. water? he remembers the deposit he made earlier into the abyss. he takes extra care to avoid it. he makes an extended lean to peer yet again over the rail. there, maybe five floors down. something is spanning the distance of the gap, laying flat on the bars.\nhe hurries down the next series of flights, keeping the board in his line of sight. his leather shoes scuffle and clunk down the steps awkwardly. no, not a board-- it's a metal plank of some sort, like the seat of a park bench. he comes closer to it. it's covered by his sick. to his right, two metal pegs jut gracelessly out of the floor, several feet apart. the rest of the bench, he assumes. he doesn’t remember there ever being a bench in his staircase. he continues on. thirty one floors. or was it thirty two? he’s never been good with remembering numbers. he sits and opens his briefcase. his legal pad contains notes and random scribbles from days in work past. he folds back the first page. he marks thirty one notches into the paper. thirty one testaments to his sanity. as long as the ink remains, he tells himself, all of this is real, and he has stepped into hell.\nfifty three floors. a doorway stands framing nothing but the same wall that surrounds it. beside it sits a weary cardboard box, tossed aside with disregard. broken glass spills out from it like an arm of someone trying to crawl their way out. he picks up a piece of glass, then turns the box up with his foot. what wine glasses didn't break are covered in dust and grime. he kicks it back over. he pulls out his legal pad. he’s started a list next to his tally marks. a list of things that shouldn't be. he adds his recent discoveries.\n^> ^doors ^with ^no ^handles\n^> ^stairs ^don’t ^end\n^> ^bench ^off ^stand\n^> ^doorway ^filled ^with ^wall\n^> ^box ^with ^broken ^glass\nwith that he pockets the shard, marks another count and continues his descension. his stomach grumbles at him yearningly. he hadn’t thought about eating. seventy eight floors. a hockey stick leans up against the corner. where are these random things coming from? were there other people here before him? or did these objects, like him, stumble into the wrong plane? his stomach hums. he tries to put it out of his mind.\nninety two floors. a door lays horizontal against the floor. it looks as if it was built that way. it all looks so intentional. yet it feels so aimless. was he intended for this? is this is destiny? to be locked in a staircase for eternity? he is breathing heavily. he sits, and pulls a water canteen from his briefcase. he suddenly wishes his water was something much stronger.\nhe leans against the wall, looking around as he sits. he spots something a few stairs down. a small box. he lifts himself down those few stairs and sits again to inspect it. a carton of cigarettes, seal already broken. he opens it. 11 orange cylinders peek out from their nest. a twelfth is turned around, leafy fingers springing from its mouth. his first stroke of luck. he searches around him for a lighter, matches, anything to start a fire. nothing. he shoves the carton in his pocket and is met with sharp pain. he hisses, pulling out his hand to inspect the source of injury. his finger has a slash through it, already pooling blood quickly. he instinctively sucks on it, bemoaning ever putting a piece of broken glass in his pocket. he pulls it out, holding it in his hand. a corner is splashed with red. below it, a spot of white light flickers on the wall. he moves it away and watches the spot flare into a large halo. he moves it closer and it focuses into a pinpoint. smoke rises from it.\nhe quickly pulls the cigarettes back out, fumbling with the lid. careful not to cut himself again, he pinches one from its resting place and puts the box back in his pocket. he turns so that the light is behind him, and holds the glass piece over the cigarette. he adjusts back and forth ever so slightly, finding the point of… ignition. smoke flares up from the cigarette. he whoops in triumph, and it becomes a hollow moan into the ether. he puts it to his lips and inhales. he coughs. it’s been several years since he had quit. it’s comforting to have something remind him of reality. plumes of smoke linger in the air. he grinds the finished remains into the floor and stands, resuming his journey.\nthe nicotine catches up with him. spots fill his vision and he loses his balance. he scrambles to hold onto anything to keep him upright, but fails. he can feel each sharp step as his world spins. lightning goes through his arm. suddenly he is face to face with the wall, and gravity has won. with a crack his vision turns white and he is still.\n\now.\nhis head throbbing is the only thing proving to him that he’s still alive. he can’t feel his feet. what happened? stairs. cigarette. dizzy. stairs. \nstairs.\nhe opens an eye and tries to focus on his surroundings. cold grey cement. cross hatched steel lining. humming, flickering lights. he almost forgot he was here. his skull is pounding. he shifts his weight and puts his arm underneath him. he pushes. pain blazes through his forearm and his vision becomes static. he looks at his arm. halfway down from his elbow. it’s bent in a way that bones aren’t conducive to. he touches it gingerly, and tears well up in his vision. broken. his arm is broken. the room starts to spin again. with his good arm he pulls himself up, propped against the wall. his wounded arm lays in his lap, screaming. he needs to wrap it somehow. he slowly unbuttons his suit jacket and carefully peels it off of him. he follows with his shirt, breathing heavily as he pulls it slowly around his fractured bones. he throws it around his neck. using his teeth and his functioning hand he ties a tight knot, and carefully sets his injury into the cotton. using the wall as a support, he slowly works to a standing position. his arm is on fire, but so far so good. he sets his jacket over his shoulders and slowly begins his journey once more.\none hundred and seven floors. going consistently down and anti-clockwise is starting to take its toll. his body has acclimated itself to the constant rotation, and surpasses him. his arm is swelling heavily, and he can see bruises start to form. spots are once more leaking into his vision. he steadies himself against the cold wall, and leans against it. he feels as if the staircase is spinning without him. he takes a deep breath, letting his mind recalibrate. he runs his hand along the smooth paint. his fingers fall on an imperfection. it's rough, like something cut its way into the surface. he picks up his head from the cold cement. his eyes slowly focus on the mark. it's small and angular. it appears smooth, not as if someone had scratched it in, but like something took a small wedge out with force.\n\nsomething like the corner of a briefcase."
}
] |
6151 | 15 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "As I stir my coffee, I ask, \"What do I usually drink?\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "There’s a coffee shop around near where I work. It’s three blocks over, but the streets thin the further you get from the main ones. Most automobiles can’t even fit through these side-streets anymore. Every building is a tall sky-rise, so it’s hard to tell what time of day it is unless you look up or at your mobile. The coffee shop is small. It’s three stories tall. Blue windows shed a soft glow of silvery light. A sky-rise surrounds it on all sides and even bridges over the top. A chalkboard sitting outside read Be yourself-a with a nice cuppa. Once inside you’re greeted by the woman at the cash register. She sends quick orders to the baristas and kitchen. She’s the owner and her husband is the chef. They live on the top floor, I’m guessing. The first and second floors are sculpted for customers to choose their seats on the bottom or on an elevated platform. The first is perfect for fast lunches or quick pickups. The elevated floor is more luxurious. The tables are thick, heavy wood. The seats have soft cushions. A waitress walks around taking orders and busting tables. There’s only ever one waitress. It’s not a busy coffee shop.\nI come here after work once a week to see someone. A girl I met here during lunch. She was picking up an order for her office, like me. Her name is Celia. She’s about average height. Gingery hair. Slight figure. Brown doe-like eyes. She doesn’t look like she could carry the crate she has to take to her office for lunches. She manages, not gracefully, but efficiently. She’s sweet and funny and energetic. Her favourite food is cucumber sandwiches on a summer day. She prefers reading over television. She likes blue. The windows are what made her first notice the coffee shop.\nI waited for her today. She came in a bit late. Between watching the door and checking my mobile, it felt like an eternity longer than forty-five minutes. She was a bit out of breath, but tried to compose herself, failing. \n“Long day?” I asked her.\n“Very long,” Celia replied.\n“Want to tell me about it?” I asked.\n“Not really,” she said. “Tell me about yours.”\nWe ordered drinks as I told her the usual story about my office. Trish, the new girl, was obviously seeing Richard, the team lead. Probably had some high hopes of getting a promotion. Veronica was getting more round. Her baby was due any day now. Richard, the team lead who was seeing Trish, had stumbled in the middle of the aisle. His hairpiece slipped to the side. I’ll bet he was relieved Trish didn’t notice.\nCelia listened intently at first, but I could tell I was boring her the longer I talked. She seemed distracted. When her coffee came all she did was stare at it while she stirred the sugar into it long enough for the coffee to forget any sugar had even been added.\n“What’s wrong?” I asked more directly this time. “Tell me.”\nShe looked at me and then back at the cup, “What do I usually drink?”\nI was confused, “What do you mean?”\n“What do I usually drink?”\n“A mocha latte.”\n“Are you sure?” She stopped stirring the coffee.\n“Yes, what are you getting at?” She was starting to worry me.\n“Do you ever see me actually drink it?”\n“Well, sure,” I answer hesitantly. “You order it nearly every time since the weather’s started to get more chill.”\n“But do you ever see me drink it?”\nI didn’t know what she was getting at. I didn’t know how to respond. I looked at her and tried to form a sentence when a man blustered through the door. I hadn’t even noticed that a storm had broken out. The wind was howling so loud I could hardly hear what the man was saying. I glanced back at Celia, but she was up. She was hurrying towards the back where the waitress comes out from the kitchen downstairs.\n“Celia?” I call after her.\nShe didn’t turn around. I got up. I followed her. She skipped steps and I skipped more to catch up. She dodged the assistants. I heard the chef say something in a thick accent. She opened the back door and nearly slammed it in my face.\n“Celia!” I called to her. “What is going on? Who was that back there?”\nShe turned around. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I have to go. I can’t stay here right now. I might not be able to see you again.” It looked like she was crying, but the rain was pouring so strongly that I couldn’t tell.\n“Celia, wait!”\n“Celia!” The voice came from behind me. It was the man. He passed by me and stormed up to Celia. Celia went rigid. “What are you doing out here? If I find out you’ve been coming here instead of working I’ll have you sent back to the farm. Do you hear me?”\n“Yes, sir,” she replied in a forced voice.\n“Hey!” I yelled. “Just who the hell do you think you are?” I took a step towards them.\nThe man held up his hand with his palm toward me. In it was a badge. “Stay back, kid. You don’t want to make any more trouble than you already have, do you?”\nI didn’t know how to respond. How did this man know Celia? Was he her father? Her employer? Was Celia a cop? She couldn’t be a criminal, could she? I’d heard that our country might start indenture servitude again. She couldn’t be an immigrant. She didn’t have a different accent from my own.\n“Come on,” the man started down the alley. He motioned for Celia to follow. She did. “And turn your display back on. You know the rules.”\nA light lit the man’s back. It came suddenly. I couldn’t tell where it came from, though. There weren’t any plasma displays around us. He turned the corner and the light followed. Celia turned toward me at the last moment, her forehead displaying a stream of words.\n* * *\nI’m at my apartment now. The owner didn’t want to tell me where Celia worked, but relinquished the information eventually. It may have been because I seemed pitifully desperate or because she didn’t want to make a scene in her shop. Celia always takes her lunch orders to the police station on the main road. But now I have to make a decision. Do I try to talk to her again? Or do I try to find out more information? Or should I just try to convince her to run away with me? I can’t make up my mind. Top rated comment will decide what I do."
}
] |
8740 | 22 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I slap on a handful of talc to absorb the puss oozing from the multiple patches of skin rot and pull on a pair of soiled boxers. I'm already late.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "Every Monday at 5:45am the alarm goes off on the floor next to my bare mattress. It’s an old alarm clock; the kind with the digital display that always seems to glow brighter the more hungover I am. This morning it was a supernova and it screamed “Radar Love” through its one partially-torn speaker, Barry Hay’s vocals tinny and scratching at the inside of my head. I swatted at the snooze bar, as I do every morning, missed, as I do every morning, and my palm splashed heavily into a half solidified puddle of cold vomit. \n *Great.*\nI rolled off the opposite side of the twin mattress and landed in an open pizza box, the two leftover slices of last week’s deluxe supreme sticking to my naked arm. I got to my knees, the previously white carpet leaving brown stains on my dingy grey sweatpants, and pushed myself up until I rocked unsteadily on bare feet. If I turn sideways I can almost touch both outside walls of my apartment. Of course I don’t *want* to touch the walls since they seem to be dripping a sort of bioluminescent sludge at the moment, but on a normal day I often spread my arms wide and remind myself just how shitty my situation currently is. This isn’t what they promised me in the brochure, I would think.\nAfter a brief stretch, and then the instant regret as my back cramped, I tripped over a leather briefcase, pristine against its backdrop of mildewed clothes and bifurcated Oreo packaging, and made my way to the corner sink/shower/toilet (if I’m really lazy, which is far too often than I’d like to admit) and splashed sulfuric water onto my face. There’s no mirror, I broke that years ago after I made the mistake of continually looking at myself in the hopes that hoping itself would restore youthful years to a haggard life. Smooth hands brushed against morning stubble. It’d have to stay, I thought. I’m already late. I didn’t want to admit that HR had revoked my razor privileges since I’d been listed as a suicide risk last month, it was too early to be reminded that I wasn’t even at the pay grade where I could decide to kill myself without filing a thousand reams of paperwork. \nI slap on a handful of talc to absorb the puss oozing from the multiple patches of skin rot and pull on a pair of soiled boxers. My suit neatly pressed with the QC tag triple signed at the bottom of the protective plastic sheet hangs crisply on a birch hangar. The high-gloss finish of the deeply etched wood reflects the flashing red beacon of my alarm clock. I never see the person who delivers my suits, I’ve stayed up many nights trying to catch them in the act, but in the time it takes me to sleepily blink after working 18 hours and staring at the snot-green rivulet flowing down my wall for the rest of the night, the suit appears on the chrome rack beside the door. After 47 years of putting on the same suit every morning I’m still surprised by how well it fits. It’s as if someone comes in and measures me each night while I sleep and makes small adjustments before I wake up. If I ate too much grade C beef, not that I’ve had the rations to afford that in many years, the suit’s front buttons would be let out a quarter of an inch to compensate for my bloated stomach. With the suit on and briefcase in hand I feel almost like a new man. The suit is perfumed with dried lilacs to cover the smell that hides beneath, but when I raise my hand to waive towards the camera above my door I catch a whiff of the decayed meat that’s wrapped within Armani casing. \nThe lock disengaged and I was careful to step over the pile of excrement that toppled back from the door as it swung inwards. Out in the hallway I fell into the cavalcade of similarly dressed men and women. The majority of the men were clean-shaven, though a few, most of whom were closer to my age, showed faint stubble that blended into the dark purple bags under their eyes. I wondered if that was how I looked this morning, and then conceded to focus instead on how the hand-made Italian loafers cushioned my feet so comfortably on the chipped concrete flooring. \nWe were herded down a long passage, room upon room opening and vomiting its resident out into the stream of well-dressed corpses. Through the passage and down seven flights of stairs we went, wordless and eyes cast down towards our feet, until we erupted out onto the street, hundreds of people shielding their eyes from the glaring morning sun like albino rats beneath a heat lamp. We were corralled into bright yellow boxes and shipped off down confusing paths of black asphalt carved into a nature-less forest. \nMy yellow box halted abruptly within the shadow of a massive mirrored monolith that towered a thousand feet in the air. The tiny troll of a man affixed to the front of my box barked orders I was still far to foggy to follow, and then waved stumpy bejeweled fingers at me until I fell onto a side latch and tumbled out into the street. I staggered up black marble stairs to twin glass doors that revolved in a slow pirouette around one another and then found myself standing in the familiar elaborate lobby that opened five stories above me. \n“Good morning. Where’s Jim?” I asked of the heavily painted blonde woman sitting behind the only piece of furniture in the room. She ignored me, as had Jim for the last twelve years, and Henrietta the ten before that. As I rode a glass elevator towards the clouds I found myself wondering if that specific skill set was required in their line of work and whether a certain amount of schooling was involved. The doors of the elevator parted and 200 pairs of dead eyes ignored me as well.\nHalf constructed cells lined thin walkways where purple carpet had been ground to grey. Each cell consisted of a slab of wood, a lopsided low-back chair, and a square light that emitted a dull blue glow. I found my cell, thirteenth row from the back, placed my briefcase on the seat to add a bit of cushioning, and sat down to observe my blue box. Wires crisscrossed my desk like confused octopi and two terminated into a rectangular shard of plastic with cryptic cuneiform scribbled about its top, and a small rodent-like object with inverted nodules that let out a soft whimper when pressed.\nI had just enough time to square my feet beneath the wood plank when the first cipher illuminated my screen. I quickly matched it with a similarly looking coding on the plastic chard beneath my fingers and pressed that button. I let out a sigh that was cut short as three more characters flashed on my screen. The sweat began to drip from the back of my neck and pooled beneath the Ike Behar collar. For the next 18 hours I repeated this process, the tips of my fingers calloused and numb. Sores blossomed on the backs of my legs and threatened to burst rose blooms of blood through my trousers. My chin dipped forward as my eyes failed and vertebrae in my neck slipped out of line sending shooting bolts of pain down my left side. The arm rests of the chair had been rubbed to splintered valleys that dug into my elbows and ground down fractured bone every time I shifted to punch in another character. With all the pain and discomfort I didn’t dare move for the risk of missing one character would result in not receiving my weekly rations, and without those rations I wouldn’t be able to live. \nI was just coming upon the realization that to miss a character on purpose and have my rations declined would in itself be a form of suicide, but the pulsing blue light of my cell’s box flickered out, and I was drawn into the herd of well suited prisoners marching their way back out of the building. Once outside the sun was gone and replaced with fluorescent tubes that pointed towards lives we’d never achieve and images of happiness we’d only ever known to exist in twenty foot squares on the sides of towers.\nAs was my usual routine I declined the yellow box and walked briskly in the south direction until I arrived at a heavily fenced in apothecary. There I purchased what my pay level would allow; a tube of white pills that merely dulled the incessant throbbing in my head, a bottle of brown spirits that had just enough potency to induce vomiting and sleep, and three magazines depicting scantily clad women that would do their best to replace a wife I’d never known. I placed my purchases in a paper bag and made my way back to the apartment. There, after passing fifty people with nearly identical bags, I slipped out of my suit, placed it back onto the birch hangar, and proceeded to drink until my tongue went slack in the back of my throat. As my eyes rolled to the back of my head I wondered how many trees were felled to facilitate a suicide request. \nEvery Tuesday at 5:45am the alarm goes off on the floor next to my bare mattress."
}
] |
4854 | 18 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "As I entered her, I felt free, but was it worth the cost of her life?"
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "She got up and left through the door she came in, and I turned toward the glass wall to the north of the room.\nNow.\nYelled the same voice I heard every hour of every day of my life. \nNow.\nI could see her yelling through the window, a crabby old woman, from Hanoi I think, always yelling.\nNow. Now.\nI kept staring at her as she was yelling off to her left, I couldn't see the girl, but I felt for her--I pitied all the girls sent to me for pollination. But as I pitied them, I began to think of myself as their savior. At least I would take care of them. At least I would be gentle and quick. I was better than any other anther they could've been sent to. And maybe if they knew that they would thank me. I deserved their gratitude.\nI turned west and Alex brought me a new towel, this one was red and made of felt, it was softer than the last one. Alex wasn't his real name, but I never asked and he never told me. He took the old towel, a sort of sour green and I said thank you and he said no problem, and his accent was deep and thick like how I was led to believe an African accent would sound. I always liked to think that I didn't possess enough pretense to assume exactly what region he was from, but I think more than anything I didn't care. Ever since the Implementation it didn’t really matter where we came from, we were all from the same place now.\nAfter the door closed I wiped myself with the towel before folding it and laying it on my chair and taking a seat.\nNOW! NOW! NOW! \nThe little Vietnamese woman kept yelling and I was glad this mystery girl wasn't in the room yet--I needed a break. \nBut then I began to worry.\nIt never took them this long. \nAnd as I stood, ready to address the mean, old woman from Hanoi the door opened and there she was.\nYear 2085, Month 3, Week 1, Day 3, Subject 8, Grey room.\nHer hair was short--I hadn't had a pixie today; it was a color I'd never seen, like honey blended with brown sugar. Her skin was dark and creamy. Her breasts were small but they filled her body out nicely; she couldn't have been taller than 160 centimeters. If I had to guess from looking at her she probably weighed somewhere around 42 or 43 kilograms. She was confident, and she was smiling, but coyly, like she had a secret, not like the other girls who smiled because it was \"actually happening\" or the ones who shivered, or cried. \nSubject 8 of day 3 of this month, she looked like what I imagine angels look like. She was naked and smiling and just stood there, waiting for me to make my move; there she was.\n----------------------------------------------------------------------------\nWhen I entered her I could tell that she was a volunteer, but she was different from any other volunteer I'd ever had. They always felt the same, not like the Sintonese girls that were bought or kidnapped and forced into this--scared, crying, some of them even had to be sedated before pollination. \nShe was different. \nAnd when I was inside of her I felt free. \nI understood the stories the older anthers had told me. About how the world was before the Implementation. I'd seen so many paintings lining the halls from the pollination room to our sleeping bay. I felt the placid, cool breeze of towering mountains\nI found I’d been looking into her eyes and \nI bent down to kiss her and as I did her eyes met mine and they weren't sedated, they weren't glazed, they were alive and open and revealing and she wrapped her arms around my body and pressed her lips against mine. As we kissed I entered her as deep as I could and she wouldn't let me take my mouth away from hers. \nAnd in that frenzy of pollination I felt her realize exactly what I had. \nAnd we heard the doors slam open.\n----------------------------------------------------------------------------\nExpression of intimate or romantic emotion during pollination is punishable by death.\nThe voice of the old Hanoi woman yelled over the intercom. \nAnd as they lined me up next to Subject 8, she looked me in the eyes and I felt the cool water of some distant beach; she touched my hand and I heard the birds flying above the shoal; she said\nMy name is Evangelina\nAnd her voice sounded the way I imagined the cedar trees in the painting in the hall from the sleeping bay to the pollination room smelled in the summer time. \nAnd then they shot her in the head.\nI turned to Alex, pistol in his hand and tears in his eyes and as he looked me in the eyes I could tell that I had felt something.\nThat I felt something that the little woman from Hanoi, or wherever, so quick to scream never would.\nAlex looked me in the eyes, and we both knew that of all the anthers since the Implementation, I felt love.\nThen he walked me back to my pollination room, handed me a blue towel, and turned around and left. I wiped my brow, sat down, and cried, and listened to that fucking voice yell:\nNow."
}
] |
4275 | 21 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "As I struggle to type, I forget how to breathe."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "The doctor says it's just stress. The headaches. The forgetfulness. The low energy levels. Stress. All stress-induced from our family moving hundreds of miles away for my wife's new job and being a stay-at-home-dad of a two-year-old.\nAnd sure, it's stressful. Definitely. It's all new to me; I never thought I'd be a dad or marry again after losing my first wife. I could believe that some of it is stress-related, sure, but shouldn't we have checked with some tests or something?\nThe first doctor put me on some kind of new pill for stress. A \"new form\" of Amitriptyline called \"Avinza.\" I looked it up and know that it's an anti-depressant. I guess that should help with stress.\nBut it doesn't.\nHeadaches. Forgetfulness. Low energy levels. Nightmares. God, the nightmares are bad. Bloody nose. Two yesterday, which prompted me to get a second opinion today.\nI just got back from the doctor's office and this one says it's stress too. They're both in the same family practice so maybe he's just going off of what the other doctor said, I don't know. This one at least seemed interested in the symptoms. He kept asking about the nightmares. He asked about which scared me more: The dream I have about the \"dark man\" who comes out of my closet every night and sits by my bed, whispering to me in the voices of my loved ones saying things that don't make any sense, or the one where I'm unable to breath and I feel like I'm constantly drowning despite me (somehow) continuing on without me being able to draw a breath.\nBoth of them are terrifying in their own way. \nI can actually feel the second one. It's absolutely horrible in a way I can't describe. I can almost feel my lungs filling with air in the dream but I can't actually suck in a breath. I feel like I need to suck in a deep lungful of air but there's something in the way and I *can't*.\nAnd the shadow man by my bed, whispering of love and sorry in the voices of the people closest to me? The voice of my wife who is sleeping soundly next to me in bed telling me she's so sorry. The voice of my parents. My siblings. My daughter. The voice of my daughter breaks my heart and I wake up crying every time I hear her but I don't remember what she says or why it hurts so much, why it makes me cry.\nStress. All stress. The second doctor agreed with the first. He's not running tests. The nosebleeds, the headaches, the dreams. The forgetfulness.\nI forget how to do things that I've always known how to do. Twice now while writing this I've simply forgotten how to type. I've been typing for so long that I don't even remember where I learned it. It's just something I've always done! And now if I focus too hard on the actual process of typing I just completely forget how to do it, like the signal from my brain to my hands are messed up. I'll feel the fingers moving and my brain will tell my hands that they're doing the right thing but the characters on the screen are all wrong; I'm hitting the wrong keys.\nI breathe in deeply, relax, and stop focusing on what I'm doing; it works and suddenly I can type just like I've always known how to type. They call it \"Jamais Vu.\" It's a terrifying feeling.\nForgetfulness. Nightmares. I know I'm forgetful because it feels like I remember everything the doctor and I talked about but now that I'm thinking about it I don't remember telling him the details of the nightmares, just that I had nightmares. Then I cut to him asking about those two dreams. I must have told him but I don't remember it.\nIt's all stress and I just need to relax. I need to take my medication, relax, and de-stress. It'll all be fine, they both told me. Stop worrying, try to ignore the nagging feeling that I'm forgetting something, and relax. Things will get better. I'll be fine.\nIt's just stress and I need to relax. I need to calm down. I need to forget.\nI need to forget the burning sensation in my legs. I need to forget the sound of the glass shattering. I need to forget the blinding pain in my right eye. The sound of the crunch when my nose hit the steering wheel. I need to forget. I need to relax. I need to stop struggling and stop trying to wake up.\nIt's just stress.\nI'll be fine.\nThe doctors say I'll be fine if I just stop fighting. Just give up. Let go.\nI just have to let go."
}
] |
4095 | 8 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I'm next.\" I step backward, reeking of fear."
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "The weakling of a man stumbled clumsily over a rock, cursing darkly. A small, nervous chuckle rose from his comrades as he scrambled to catch up with them, lasgun clattering against his chest armour. Bloodmaw eyed the weapon passively before craning its head to view the group of men. There were very few of them, thankfully. Patrols had gotten tougher since Bloodmaw had slain the commander last week. It crouched low, concealing itself within the dense undergrowth of the jungle as the patrol wandered past, oblivious to its presence. Bloodmaw waited until the stumbler ambled by before it made its move.\nIt speared out a talon, razor-sharp material shearing through armour, bone and flesh alike. Bloodmaw withdrew the blade from the man’s chest, a small burst of gore flinging into the air with it. Bloodmaw had impaled him through the heart, rendering the man dead instantly. He slumped to the floor limply, lasgun hitting his helmet on the way down. The noise alerted the men, who turned around to see their comrade gutted before them. Bloodmaw faded into the jungle again, vanishing as quickly as it’d struck.\nThe men rushed to their friends aid, checking vainly for a pulse. Of course there was none, the neuro toxins coating the talon alone would kill a man ten times over. The larger, ones in the bulky suits needed more work though. This prey was like paper, that prey was like butter. More effort, similar result. Bloodmaw flitted speedily through the underbrush, finally arriving behind the group of men. Three left now. Easy pickings. One stepped backwards, reeking of fear. Bloodmaw waited patiently, determined not to relay its presence to the soldiers yet. The one stepping back wandered within range and Bloodmaw speared him through the leg before dragging him into the darkness. The screams were loud, but terror was Bloodmaw’s final goal; leave the soldiers of this world too horrified to fight back when the final, true infestation took place.\nA flurry of las shots tore through the flora in its direction, shredding the leave and snapping the branches. Bloodmaw merged with the environment again and relocated swiftly. The two panicking survivors looked around frantically, jumping at every noise they heard. Bloodmaw peeked out from behind a nearby tree before speeding across one side of the pathway to the other, talons outstretched. As it reached the shadows on the other side it felt an impact and turned around to view it’s kill, severed head tumbling from the body with a spray of blood. The body soon followed, hitting the ground with a sickly thwump. \nOne human left. \nBloodmaw tilted its head to the right like a dog trying to understand, analysing the final man. Its animalistic nature gave way to its true, cold intellect as it recognised the uniform the man was wearing. He was one of those ones in power… Bloodmaw subconsciously shifted positions again, slowly creeping closer to the man. The raw hatred, horror and fear emanating from the shaken being was almost intoxicating to it, almost too much to resist. Bloodmaw stepped out of the shadows and gripped the man by the head, pulling him up into the air. The screaming was horrendous, but Bloodmaw didn’t care. It needed to do its job. Efficiently, Bloodmaw severed the man’s arm with a talon, weapon tumbling to the floor as well. Bloodmaw turned him around to face it, cold and soulless eyes gazing back into fearful ones.\nAbruptly, Bloodmaw pushed firmly on the man’s cranium, bursting the head like a watermelon. The screaming, flailing and fear stopped instantly. Bloodmaw let go of the man before staring emotionlessly at the corpse sprawled before it. It opened its beaked mouth and tore into the brain matter, some bizarre dark miracle allowing it to harness the memories of the fallen. Bloodmaw knew everything now. It knew positions, troop locations, weak points… It turned to gaze at the base in the distance, blood dripping from its mouth. It also knew why they feared it and tried to give it a name. The Lictor known as Bloodmaw faded into the trees again, searching for new prey to feed upon."
}
] |
19541 | 5 | [
{
"from": "system",
"value": "You are an expert short story writer. Use a clue provided by user to write a fully fleshed out short story."
},
{
"from": "human",
"value": "\"I'm just making an ammunition run.\""
},
{
"from": "gpt",
"value": "“Cassandra!” I bellowed, waiting to hear her feet send the basement staircase into it’s series of creaks and moans. I heard the kids chasing each other upstairs. Echoes of footsteps across the wooden floor in rhythm to the shouting of “Mommy! Mommy! Daddy’s calling!” \nI assumed she was upstairs canning peaches, when Harlan poked his glowing blonde head through the door, shouting at me. \n“Momma’s making dreams!”\nHarlan called anything Cassandra put into jars, “Dreams”. This began when he was sick and his mother heated up some of the pie fillings she had canned and fed it to him. Put him right to sleep, but gave him “funny dreams”. The name stuck.\nI put the barrel to my AR15 down alongside the BoreSnake and pins that laid sprawled across a towel. I could hear Cassandra at the top of the stairs scolding our youngest for opening the basement door. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I made my way up to mediate. The air was dense with the smell of cinnamon and honey. *The thickness of apple butter coated my throat as I inhaled deep. \n“Don’t bother, Jason. I got him.” I loved hearing her mother the kids. Every year, the week before hunting season, I’d sit amid my piles of metal pieces and admire what I’d hear through the floorboards. Listening to her tend to cuts and scrapes by planting a slew of kisses atop them, and the relief that followed in the sniffling up of tears, all because they felt secure. She made them feel safe. That’s what I was counting on her to do most of all this year. Making them feel safe.\n“What did I tell you about playing with the locks, Harlan?” She reprimanded our youngest as his head looked toward his shoes, and shot me a look for having left the keys at his reach.\n“I was going to make a last minute run to the store.” I attempted to change her direction, but could see her eyes grilling me out of my peripherals. I kept my stare focused on Harlan and Violet. His head hung low, but peered up at me to study my expression for disappointment. \n“We have everything we need. Don’t risk it.” Cassandra stated flatly. I didn’t want her to worry, but I had noticed my brass ammunition had been misplaced. I needed to go. \n“A quick trip won’t hurt.” I could hear the TV faintly playing from the living room. A chorus of newscasters and journalists debating on the morality of this season’s hunting regulations. A lot of things had changed. New directives had been set, compulsory weapon edicts had been introduced... this year would be different. Certain restrictions for regions and sectors had been lifted. The 2046 hunt would be the first under federal order. Cassandra was right to worry, but I couldn’t admit that to her. \nShe shot me a look which received only a smile from me. I tried to soften her with a boyish-grin to no avail. The lecture was coming. \nLike clockwork, she chimed. “Odessa, take your brother and sister upstairs.” \nCassandra’s focus was unnerved. Her glare went unbroken as our daughter offered a “Yes, momma.”, scooping our youngest into her quaint arms and guiding Harlan by his hand to follow her. She waited for the sound of the kids’ door to close, granting her permission to speak.\n“I’d rather you not.” She marched toward the sitting room, searching for something and huffing. \n“I’ll be quick.” I wanted to offer a better excuse. Provide her with something more invulnerable to trust, but fell short. At that moment, it were as if God himself were mocking me. The news anchors moved on to discuss how the hunt had already started in some remote places of the U.S, like fireworks before the 4th of July. Mostly small towns who had planned to disregard the opening transmission that was scheduled to air at midnight. I had a brief memory of my grandfather’s account regarding the hunting season, and how less ceremonial people had been about it. How the population was split between fear and anticipation. “A war fought by murderers.” he had called it. “It’s giving the mentally ill a pass at being too mentally ill. It’s inhumane. They’ve redefined the word entirely.” He’d shake his hands about in the air in frustrated dismissal. He’d remark on how the Annual Citizenry Control Measures made people wish cancer and AIDS still existed, as they’d be thankful to die from disease instead. If you asked him about the famine from CCD in 2023 and what he’d thought about it’s relationship to the definition of dying humanely, he’d ignore you. Nobody wants to die, no matter the fashion. A month of hell for a 11 months of heaven is a bet I’m willing to take. \nCassandra lifted herself to stand upright, discontinuing her cavity search of our sofa. Her hands found their way to her hips and her eyes dug into me. Discovering crevices of doubt that nestled in my soul and picked at them with tense silence. I was weakening.\nNeither of us said anything for a moment, letting our eyes share a dialogue. Without taking her attention away from me, she slowly lifted her hand and pointed the remote to the television. A finger pressed harshly against the volume buttons, increasing the noise from the glass square imbedded to our wall.\nHer head tilted, and her lips scrunched to one side. The news cut to Governor Caine’s conference.\n“By now, you’re probably aware that there have been some adjustments made to the 2046 ACCM. The eradication of fatal diseases has now increased. Once again, through evolutionary immunity, the list has expanded with Heart Disease being added to the collective. You can understand the gravity of this issue. The Federal Government has stepped in to regulate laws all over America, including weaponry restrictions and offering new aid in keeping your family safe. Ohio has had it’s fair share of controversy in the aftermath of the ACCM. We’re dealing with a lot of illegalities here. Early starts to hunts, underground meat-markets, and illegal tagging as a result. Last year’s statistics were ignominious in comparison to other states. With every county having their own curtailment for optimum results, we demonstrated lack of efficiency and formidable self-serving tactics… and for that I take full responsibility. Our numbers, in both unmitigated crimes relating to the ACCM, and effectual figures were an embarrassment. This year that changes.\nWith the interference from the Federal Government, you have adopted new difficulty. It is vital that we adapt to the new laws that have been set forth. As a reminder, you must tag all of your kill and bring it to your local authorities at the conclusion of the season. Please remember to store your kills properly to avoid illness and out of respect for the family who will be retrieving the body at the end of the month. If your kill does not have identification on his or her person at the time of collection, it is your responsibility to tag it as Unidentifiable. Any improperly tagged kills will result in penalty and fines. For repeat offenders, the Government has issued.. “\nCassandra powered off the TV, and let her hand drop to her side angrily. I shrugged.\n“I’ll be fine.” \nThe month after hunting season comes to a close is the only breach in time that Cassandra spends not worrying. The rest of the year is worn out biting her nails to their quick and playing scenarios out in her mind for both strategy and tragedy. It’s always comes across as pointless to me, but I suppose she’s stuck in her ritual for the sake of superstitious security. Though, I’d gladly trade anything in the world for the nightmares to stop. She works too hard and worries too much.\n“Yeah, ‘Kids, Daddy died getting milk.’” Her sarcasm made me shake. Not for any other reason than my being at a loss for reassurance. \n“You think they’re already out sniping because of some shit you heard on the news? That’s the same as the people who are afraid to drive cars because they read about accidents. I can cover my own ass, Cassandra and you know it.” I didn’t want to fight. I knew where my frustration stemmed from and it wasn’t her fault. It was mine. Fear coupled with ache knowing I was at a loss to comfort her. This is the hardest part of it all.\n“I don’t want to start arguing. It’s 10:30 Jason, can’t you wait until..” I cut her off.\nThe thing about being married for 13 years, most of your arguments start over what you know the other one is thinking. The beauty is, they mostly end because of it, too. \n“It’s better to go now. Trying to storm Niche’s after midnight is begging death to take you on your knees.” I opened my mouth too soon and gave myself away. But, being in a gun store during the hunt would be like tap-dancing on a landmine.\n“I thought you were going to…” she paused, and I could see the wit being spit my way before she opened her mouth. I cringed to embrace for impact. “So... wait. Harlan’s eating bullets for breakfast?” Her hands were back to their respective position on her hips. \n“I lost my brass ammunition. I’m sure it’s down there somewhere. I can’t use the AR without brass. It’ll fuck up with aluminum.” I trailed off while searching for my keys.\nShe was in a fit, but the rant was muffled. Like I was underwater and she was screaming at me from above it. If I were critically acclaimed Best Huntsman of 2046, she’d still manage to make me question whether I were impotent. I gave her a kiss to her cheek and left before I noticed tears. Purposefully avoiding saying anything to the children, as it helped me to believe this would be a normal outing. I’m just making an ammunition run.\nI got to my car and heard a shot off in the distance. Close enough to put me on edge, but far enough that Cassandra couldn’t have heard it from the house. I figured it best to make the journey on foot. \nThe shittiest thing you can do at the start of the ACCM is drive your car. It’s one of the easier ways to bag a kill. Set up camp in the bushes alongside an infrequently driven road and load your sniper rifle. You’re practically driving a death trap, not to mention it’s easy to identify the driver, as there’s always a license or paperwork in the vehicle. Less of a hassle for people when hunting season comes to a close. \nI was equipped with a .9mm handgun, a Gerber tactical knife and MAC-10 with a two-staged suppressor, which had been rendered illegal now with the new governmental restrictions, and a Bolt Action sniper rifle strapped across my back. I made sure to grab a handful of tags on my way out of the door, too. I was ready for anything, and my adrenaline didn’t argue otherwise. \nA chill neighbored the damp air urging me to pull up the hood of my jacket, certain it would have cemented itself to my head by the time I reached the store in the downpour. My leather boots strapped to my feet, secured as tight as I could get them. Their weight causing me to move lethargically to conceal myself. \nIt used to be that the ACCM was seen as barbaric. Back in 2013 when infants started popping up all over Africa immune to AIDS but having been born to parents who were both infected, no one really batted an eye. Maybe in awe of it, but no one really grasped the full responsibility of a genetic mutation of that magnitude and it’s potential to develop rapidly over just a few decades. Not to mention, no one could foresee it happening with many cancers, either. Just a few scanty generations is what designated a species to go from merciful to remorseless. If you ask me, I’d gladly take a bullet over dying starved beside my family. The U.S tried to regulate births, but with so many people being born with immunities, doing the math leads us to where we are now. It’s all in the numbers. I’m certain as the list grows, decades from now, the hunt will be extended beyond the established 30 days. And eventually, I’m certain even farther from now, there will be a time where it won’t just be the men of the household drafted for participation. They won’t have rules like ‘single women with children cannot apply for licensure’. Ultimately, it will be a fucking free for all and the government not giving a single shit. \nI approached the store with caution, hand gripping my .9mm and my eyes sharp with alert. Peering in through the window, I could easily make out the clerk. Businesses may hold exemption from the hunt, but I wouldn’t get caught under-estimating anyone. I needed to be quick.\nI checked above the door for a bell, hoping not to announce my presence anymore than I already had with my boots against the pavement. Once I had studied the perimeter and presumed it secure, I entered. \nI raised my arms in surrender, keeping the .9mm in my right hand as the clerk raised his barrel in my direction.\n“I just need some ammo. I’m not hunting early.” I offered him my reason for being there and waited for him to set his gun down. After a few seconds of stand-off, he obliged. \n“Take what you need and go.” He had an accent that was almost too thick to make anything out. I hurried to the back of the store, grabbing what I could from the shelf with my left hand, holding tight to the slab of metal in my right.\nI was squinting hard at the sloppily aligned boxes when I caught him out of the corner of my eye. Weapon raised within seconds and I let off a shot, catching in him the leg. I could hear his breathing and then his fall. I knew the hit wouldn’t kill him, and I heard his gun against the tile as he sat it upright in shooting position. He was down, but he wasn’t dead.\nI dove behind an aisle, somehow managing to be positioned dead center of the brass ammo. I counted what I had readily available on me, and a shot rang overhead. I could hear him laughing through his slobber-soaked lips. He was definitely wounded.\nMy breathing accelerated and I shifted my positioning behind the aisle, quiet not to give my movement away. I heard the metal of his gun being tampered with as he spoke.\n“You ain’t killin’ me today, boy!” and I took advantage. The worst thing you can do is try and movie-cliche your way into a kill. While you’re busy thinking up something slick to say, I’m busy aiming.\nA headshot. I wasted no time pulling tags from my pocket, shouting to the clerk as I moved hastily. “I”m leaving the money for the ammunition I’m taking back here and I’ll be on my way.”\nI tagged him, making a mental note to write in his height and weight later on. This is the reason I stay close to home during the hunt, not just for my family’s sake, but for the sake of managing to take your game back with no truck. I couldn’t risk it. I’d have to come back for him.\n“I’m going to have to leave him here! I don’t have a car to take him with me!” I tried my chance at the clerk being okay with it, but he was shouting before I could make my way into view. I searched the body for an I.D and found none. There were tons of these inbred assholes who admired the sportsmanship in the hunt. They were the ones who purposefully didn’t keep I.D to make the life of whoever reaped them more difficult. They were also the ones who didn’t turn over their kills. They’d keep the meat for themselves. It made me feel more satisfied in taking them out.\nWith unsettled hands, I grabbed his gun. Rummaging through his pockets to retrieve whatever else he had that could be useful. A pill bottle I’d review later and what felt like some cash. I put eveything with the ammunition in my pocket and shouted to the clerk who was still belting a series of “No, no, no’s”, and “You collect!”. \nI reemerged from the back with my hands in the air.\n“I will come back.” I tried to pronounce every word from first letter to last, in an attempt at communicating my trustworthiness. I slid out of the store and took off running.\nI felt the tags in my pocket hitting against my thigh, and I kept my stride at that pace. I didn’t want to be spotted, but I needed to make it home. Leaving your family unattended is the worst thing imaginable to someone who has just been shot at. Once it happens to you, you picture it happening to them. I felt what Cassandra must feel those 11 months out of the year. I could envision the things that I’d normally push out of my mind during the hunt. I couldn’t keep them at bay. Breaking into someone’s house and bagging a family is easy pickings. You feel more secure because of the walls, so you shoot more confidently. Take the men out and you’re left with a feast of tagging. I’ve been there.\nThrough the trees, I spotted the house. All the lights were off except for a few solar ones off to the back end of the house. I started to increase my pace until I heard a clinkering off in the distance. Initially, I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, so I ducked down. Hovering motionless at a kneel. I glanced in all directions with a swift move of my head and eyes, then I heard it again. Metal against metal for certain, but it was too soft to be weaponry. A blade being sharpened? I waited in silence for it again, trying to make out it’s familiarity. \nMore clanking, but the sound was suppressed by a car driving behind the woods. I quickly gazed toward the street in the direction of the car, watching it keep at it’s pace down the road. I exhaled relief and returned my attention to the sound, trying to place it’s location, while quietly revealing my rifle from it’s nylon carrier. I peered toward the house and that’s when I saw him. Squatted down, eye-level with the door knob. I couldn’t make out much, but the shadowy figure seemed to be tampering with the lock. Upon noticing, the clanking sound started again, and I knew it was coming from the house. He was breaking in. He had targeted my family. I checked the windows of the house again and saw Cassandra’s silhouette in the girls room upstairs as she flicked on a light and proceeded to huddling them into a corner. She had heard him, too. Please get the Luger, baby. \nI pulled the rifle into shooting position and peered through the scope. He blended with the shadows of the bushes alongside the front steps. I kept my breathing as steady as I could, but felt the shakiness of my hands reducing my chances of accuracy. I held my breath, as the sweat pooled on my hands and mixed with the steady stream of rain that poured from overhead. I exhaled and took the shot and immediately started toward the house at a full sprint. I wanted to yell for Cassandra, but couldn’t. I couldn’t give myself away anymore than I already had. I just needed to reach those steps. I heard him go down into the bushes beside the concrete porch, but his fall wasn’t as loud as I had expected. He could have braced himself in the dirt. I took into consideration his positioning, and lifted the rifle as I slowly approached the door. \nCarefully and tactfully, I reduced my speed from a gait to a creep, listening to my boots crushing pebbles and mud beneath my feet. My breath ringing in my ears and heart beating in my throat, I stepped up onto the porch. Positioning the barrel of my rifle over the side of the cement to reveal my kill through my sight. A shadow, laying perfectly still. A shadow with a mop of glowing blonde hair, tucked into a ball and covered in blood. \nHarlan laid motionless in the dirt as I threw my rifle down and picked up my boy. Sobs reverberated against the houses and trees. Mangled cries of “I’m sorry, Daddy’s sorry!” repeated through the dampening wind. Cassandra opened the door with a moist face, arms extended toward her lifeless baby.\n“He was playing with the lock, Jason! He was only playing with the lock! Oh my god.” Her voice echoes in my head. The entire moment a blur. I don’t know how long we sat, holding our son, before I dragged him inside and pulled a tag from my pocket."
}
] |
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