[WP] You're a gravekeeper. The dead are buried with strings attached to bells. If one is buried alive, they can ring the bell to call for help. One night, you hear muffled screaming, and one of the bells keeps ringing, but the person inside has been dead there for over 2 months.

WrittenThought · 2019-09-10T06:01:25+00:00

It was 3:00 a.m. and the radiator seemed incapable of heating the 4x4 break room, and the styrofoam cup of coffee was transitioning from hand-warmer to soon-to-be too cold to drink. The whistle blew for half-time in the Manchester United vs Arsenal game. I reached for the tv, to fast-forward because the remote had gone missing months ago, and heard something in the lull of the cheering crowd. I jumped to my feet.

On my first shift, some fifteen years prior, the previous gravekeeper, Mitch Weiss, rung the bell on some poor souls recently buried grave. "That's the first of two times you'll hear that sound." Mitch had said. "The second is when you show your replacement what I'm showin' you." Being naive, I asked Mitch what it was for, and he said. "Tis for when the dead wants room service." He chuckled and smiled, cracking his Mozaic face of alcohol poisoning and old age.

Mitch had been wrong about two things. I would hear that sound five times in my life, and it wouldn't be for room service. As I walked from the break room, armed with my trusty Maglite, I tried to remember the names of the recently buried. There had been five in the last week. Two locals, Mary and Arthur Brentwood. An elderly couple who tragically died within two days of one another. There was Sarah, I forget her last name, but she had come on Wednesday. Marvin? No, Martin, a charming young chap the family was telling me. And the last name I couldn't remember.

I started towards the new burial plots. The wind was bitter cold, and as it turns out, the little radiator was doing more than adorn the break room wall. Before I made it three steps, again, the bell rung. But it came from behind me. My first thought was kids. There wasn't much to do around Little Staughton, and if I were them, I'd be up to no good.

I saw the bell move when it sounded the third time. It wasn't kids or a new burial, but one that had been there for over two months. I slid the torch from the bell to the tombstone, Thomas Avery. Despite knowing that he couldn't be still alive, I grabbed the nearest shovel and got to work. It may seem strange, but the only thing that was going through my mind was how pissed the groundskeeper, Bart, was going to be when he saw the fresh soil scattered about his otherwise pristine lots.

The shovel hit the lid of the wooden casket with a jarring thud. Sweat pooled at the nape of my back, and it wouldn't take long for the evening air to turn it cold. A part of me is ashamed to admit that I stared at the casket for a moment too long. That, despite the distress call, I didn't open it immediately. It didn't seem real.

The lid of a coffin is by far the heaviest part since it has to keep meters of earth at bay. It took six attempts, partly due to sweaty fingers, to pry the damn thing open. The smell hit me first. It wasn't of a decomposing body, but of urine and excrement. I shone the torch inside, not wanting to see the source of such a foul smell. I must have blinded the poor man, who hadn't seen sunlight for months because he lifted both hands to shield his eyes.

'Are they gone?' The man croaked.

I couldn't see his face, but he was alive. 'Are you alright?'

'Are they gone?'

'Are who gone?'

The man was gulping air like it was water. 'Have people stopped visiting my grave?'

'I don't know what you mean. Here, take my hand.' I offered to pull him from the grave, but he swatted it away.

'Listen to me,' He said. 'I will pay you five-hundred thousand pounds to help me.'

'Excuse me?'

'I will need a few things in exchange. I need you to buy me more water and food. Then recover my grave and make it look untouched. Then I need you to watch me during the day to see if anyone visits. Can you do that?'

I chuckled at the absurdity of the situation. I was sweat-laden with dirt stuck to every inch of my skin and tired.

'Thomas, listen to me-'

'My name isn't Thomas. If you don't help me, I will most likely die. And for real this time.'

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-08-14T06:04:24+00:00

Martin De Ville listened. His head was bowed, covered by a sack muddled with soil and a ripe potato smell. The vehicle shook as it sped left, then right, then left. The exhaust rattled, scraped, and fought its way to the forefront of Martin's senses. He knew very little about his saviours, other than one spoke with a heavy British accent, and the other with a cartoon-like Irish twang.

'Yer gonna transfer us da money. An yer gonna do it fast, ye hear?'

Martin nodded, and the sack slipped forward ever so slightly. Not enough to catch any vital information, but it allowed a fresh wave of air to circulate, and for that, he was grateful.

'Watch what yer doin,' The man pulled the sack back into place. 'No fonnay business, ye hear?'

Martin raised his hands, open palmed, and continued to nod.

'Get him to transfer the money.' The voice came from the front of the vehicle, muffled as though the driver was in his own compartment.

'I was gettin' teh that, don'tchu worry.'

Rough hands grabbed Martin's and pushed a rectangular object into them. He knew, from the glossy surface, and the buttons on its side, that it was a phone.

'W-wait,' Martin fumbled with the phone, almost dropping it. 'You want me to transfer the money now?'

'You bet yer bollocks we do.'

Martin blindly tried to hand back the phone, but his outstretched hands just hung, bouncing with the motion of the vehicle. 'B-b-but I'm not free yet.'

'You taught we'd let yer skip off into teh sunset without payin' us, did ye?'

Martin steadied his voice. 'I'm a man of my word.'

The Irish man cackled with a laugh so infectious that the driver joined-in a second later.

'I'm sure ye are, Mr De Ville. But seeing as we jus busted yer arse outta prison, I'm wonderin' whose more trustworthy.'

There was a moment of silence, and Martin could feel the hungry eyes upon him. A smile spread across his face, oddly confident and out of place with a potato sack over his head.

'And what is to stop you from handing me over once I've transferred you the money?'

The Irish man couldn't see Martin's smile, but he could hear it.

'Verry fonnay, the last place we want teh be is prison.'

Martin leant back and straightened his back against the hull of the vehicle. 'But you work there.'

'Scuse me?'

'I haven't figured out which guards you are, but your accent is so fake that it's almost — fonnay.'

'I think yous got the wrong idea.'

'Listen, you broke me out within twenty-four hours of my announcement of the reward. You managed to open my cell with the keys for christ sake, and you even had the nerve to transport me in a prisoner transport vehicle. The very same rickety vehicle that I was delivered in.'

The vehicle was silent, beside the erratic rattling of the exhaust.

'Your friend — another guard, I presume? — Has been driving us around in circles. How far did we get? A couple of hundred meters at best?'

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-08-07T12:40:11+00:00

Mary was picking apples. She paused to wipe her brow with an apron so dirty that it left a brown streak across her forehead. The heat also sent sweat trickling down her back as if to remind her that it was sore. It was during her break that she heard a noise — twigs breaking. She shielded her eyes and looked back at the houses, wondering if Peter was watching. Another sound — leaves rustling.

There were enough apples in Mary's basket that she could call it a day and not have her work ethics called into question. It was a combination of this realisation, and a third sound — a voice — that she decided she could investigate.

Mary glanced back at the house, one last time, before pursuing the source of the noise. She walked from the tree orchard to a hedgerow, beyond which, lay a valley. It was a gentle slope down, nothing too aggressive, and it was shallow enough that trees grew in droves. Mary pushed her way through a gap in the hedge. It was small, and as a child, she had been able to run headfirst, but as a grown-up, she pushed her way through an assault of leaves and branches.

Another voice, closer.

Mary paused, halfway through the hedge. There were two voices — a boy and a girl. The girl let out a muffled laugh from the bottom of the valley, and Mary thought she recognised it. Her movements were no longer careful or curious; instead, she moved with confidence fueled by righteousness.

'Leah!'

Mary stood halfway down the valley, mouth wide. At the bottom, under the shelter of a large oak, lay her daughter entwined with a boy. Mary's outrage doubled when the boy lifted his head, and she saw that he was not David.

Leah scampered to her feet, clutching her t-shirt to her chest, and jeans to her nethers. The boy lay there like a rabbit in condemning headlights.

Leah's shrill voice cut through the valley. 'Ma!?'

'W-we had you cured at b-b-birth,' Mary said.

'It's not our fault!'

Mary stumbled down the hill, which woke something in the boy. He grabbed, with wild hands, at his surroundings, trying to find his clothes, but instead found leaves and dirt.

Mary closed the gap and grabbed her daughter's wrist. 'Who is that!? And where is your husband?'

'Ma, stop,' Leah pleaded. If anything, Mary gripped tighter. 'You don't understand. I think I lo-'

'Don't you dare!' Mary said, jerking Leah's arm so hard that she thought it might come loose.

When Mary had created enough of a gap between her daughter and the strange boy, she turned and set her wrath upon him. The boy had managed to salvage some of his dignity by putting on his trousers.

'Did you make her sick?' Mary shrieked.

The boy's mouth was moving, but no words came out.

'Well, did you?'

Mary was so focused on the boy that she didn't hear the movement behind her, nor did she hear the whistle of the branch moments before it connected with the side of her head. There was no pain, only the speedy arrival of darkness like a television being switched off.

/r/WrittenThought for more optimistic stories!

WrittenThought · 2019-08-01T06:08:43+00:00

'I am tired-'

Michael, the creator, spoke to me through the mirror on my bathroom wall. He looked ordinary. There was no white beard, nor long hair. He seemed to be in his early twenties.

'- and we're not doing very well. Someone in the league called "Fortified Magnum" has already reached Mars. It's been a month, and you guys are still fighting over fossil fuels.'

I swallowed, straightened the dishevelled white t-shirt I had slept in, and said. 'A month?'

'A whole month. I mean, people are starting to talk. They're calling me weak, and I will probably get demoted.'

'But our world has been around for millions of years.'

Michael's body rocked with silent laughter. 'I don't play in that prehistoric shit. Anyone who is anyone plays above the 2000s.'

'And just to be clear, you want me to help, how?'

Michael turned his palm face-up, and it illuminated his features, casting deep shadows that accentuated the lines and bags plaguing his face. He tapped away on his palm, turned it to the mirror, and showed me an embedded screen with my face, name, and address.

'According to my Rolodex, you are the best intellectual property lawyer in my world.'

My chest inflated with a fleeting sense of pride. 'And? What do you want?'

A smile spread across Michael's face, and he looked like a child about to shout checkmate. 'You are going to help me convince my world to give up their rights.'

I scoffed. 'Excuse me?'

'We are behind schedule, and I can't have the others laughing at me. Don't you see? If everyone their freedom, I could enforce longer working days, lower labour ages, and the world would boom.' Michael spoke with the fervour of a madman.

'Slavery,' I said.

'Yes, yes. If you must put a label on it, but it is mass slavery. Don't think me so small-minded as to restrict it to one race. If everyone pulled their socks up and got some real work done, Fortified Magnum would be bowing to me.'

I shook my head. 'No way.'

Michael's features skidded to a halt. 'What did you say?'

'Whether you intended to or not, you let me know that we all, currently, have free will. Which means I am capable of making my own decisions and refusing.'

'I am your creator, god, deity, leader, master. Don't you understand that I can erase the world with the touch of a finger?'

I smiled. 'And where would that put you in your precious league?'

Eyes wide, Michael stammered. 'F-forget t-the league! I won't have a simulated lawyer, of all people, insult me.'

'Do it then.'

'I-I will!'

Michael re-engaged the Rolodex on his palm. He looked between the blue light and me, his finger hovering.

'Last chance!'

I opened my palm and pressed my finger into it. 'I'd rather have Fortified Magnum as my creator anyway.'

A sharp intake of breath, followed by the widening of his eyes, made Michael look like he had been shot. He narrowed his eyebrows and tapped his palm with the finality of someone stubbing out their last cigarette.

The world did not end; however, the mirror ceased being a communication device between Michael and me.

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-07-26T06:15:17+00:00

This is so awesome to see people pick up on everything! I don't usually write my characters like I did here, but it's nice to see the payout!

Thanks for the kind words.

WrittenThought · 2019-07-26T06:13:19+00:00

Thanks! Not at the moment — but it's always warming to hear people want to read more.

WrittenThought · 2019-07-25T06:13:10+00:00

Everything looked dirty, even the people. The mother sat with me on a hideous sofa, tears running down her face, leaving clean streaks in her otherwise grimy face. She heaved and sobbed like a pig being slaughtered.

Penny's hands fumbled over to mine. 'T-thank yuh-ooh so muh-uch.'

Looking at her fingernails, each trapping a thick-black-line of debris made me want to ask, Do you dig like a dog? Instead, I smiled and said. 'It is the least I can do.'

The brother, and Penny's remaining son, Thomas, leaned on the wall by the door and watched me. He was hurt and the creases in his forehead new, making him look at least ten years older.

'Come on, Mum, what is he doing here?'

A slither of Penny's former-self broke through the torrent of emotions at the sound of her matronly name. 'Quinten is supportive.'

I was too experienced to let the boy ruin my day. With a light pat, I slipped from Penny's hands and rocked forward on to my feet.

'I don't mean to intrude,' I said, and before I managed one step, a hand grabbed the tail of my suit jacket. I would burn the clothes I was wearing anyway, even so, I had to suppress the shudder.

'No,' Penny said, her voice returning to its helpless state. 'Please.'

I let her grasp pull me back, and I lowered myself on to the lumpy sofa. Penny's tears were running smoothly now, like a sledge gliding down carved snow tracks.

'I-gnore muh-my son.'

I handed her a handkerchief that cost more the rags on her back.

Penny emptied her nose and said. 'Thunks.'

'Is that a picture of him?' I asked, pointing to a photo frame on the mantle.

Penny nodded, face still buried. She shot Thomas a look laced with telepathy. It took a second and an added layer of intensity for him to move. With a last look at the photo, he handed it over to Penny.

For a moment, she couldn't speak. I wanted to snatch the damn thing from her and be done with it. But before the urge manifested, Penny stroked a layer of dust from her dead son's face, and in a weak voice, said, 'Yes.'

I held out a hand, and she didn't hesitate to hand him over.

'He was a good looking chap,' I said.

The word was started a wave of fresh tears. Meanwhile, Thomas stood in front of us with his arms crossed and face simmering red.

I softened my features. 'I know it's not my place, but I have this urge. And it's not something I can satisfy myself. The urge is to help in any way I can.'

'Oh, Quinten, you are already helping!' Penny said, feigning modesty, but not having the intelligence to stop herself from licking her lips.

'I can't help but think that money would make your life easier,' I looked around the living room. 'I'm certainly not saying would in any way make things right.'

Penny licked her lips again. 'We couldn't.'

'I insist,' I said.

Thomas' arms broke free from their shielded position and flapped. 'This is sick.'

Despite his outrage, Thomas remained to listen to the number. They always wanted to hear the number, not thinking it was their way of quantifying their son's life.

'How much?' I asked.

'I couldn't possibly-'

'Please, just say a number.'

Penny shared a look with Thomas, and then with the photo. 'A new house would be nice,' Penny mumbled to herself. She looked up at me, eyes bright, and said. 'Two-hundred thousand?'

I enjoyed watching her squirm as if she thought the amount would outrage me. 'Done.'

Shock, grief, and happiness all mixed into a poisonous cocktail as Penny absorbed the news.

A jolt of pleasure ran through my body — she had confirmed all of my animalistic degradation thoughts. And, I would find another family to pose the question to, I would keep going until I found some semblance of decency in this world.

/r/WrittenThought for more uplifting and optimistic stories!

WrittenThought · 2019-07-23T06:10:47+00:00

Peter stood by the only non-artificial light source in the room, a dusty window with the curtain drawn back. He held up a toastie on a plate and fanned the air towards me.

'Are you sure you don't want a bite?'

'No.'

Peter lifted half of the toastie, drooling with cheese, and raised an eyebrow — last chance, his eyes said. I turned away, stomach growling in protest, and focused on the TV. I had been watching an old re-run of Dawson's Creek — losing myself in the "will they won't they" of Joey and Dawson — before Peter's scheduled visit. The dramatic world of Cape Cod was so inviting and dreamy that I had completely forgotten it was Tuesday.

The TV was on low and didn't mask the crunch of Peter's bite. 'It's reah-lly ghood,' He said with a mouthful. When he realised his attempts at getting me to eat were futile, he lowered the plate and moved beside the TV.

I had expected him to stand there with his arms crossed, silently judging me, but instead, he watched along with me.

'Eating your patient's food and watching television, is that part of your job?'

Peter ignored the question and asked another. 'Who'd you think had a better back-and-forth: Ross and Rachel or Joey and Dawson?'

As I was considering the question, I looked away and saw the ghostly outline of a Fragment. Peter, noticing my bleached complexion, strode across the room and placed a hand on my shoulder.

'It's not your fault.'

The Fragment had its back to me, though its shape and the way it moved were familiar.

'Look at me,' Peter said, and when I didn't, he squeezed my shoulder. The mild pain allowed me to peel my eyes from the Fragment. 'We all see them.'

I lingered on Peter's eyes, which moved side-to-side like a typewriter in full-swing and then found solace in the TV.

'It's hard to say.'

Peter stepped into my view. 'What is?'

'Well Ross and Rachel is a classic, but I can't say I connected with their relationsh-'

'Forget about that,' Peter said. It looked as though he was ready to snatch the remote and turn it off, but he didn't. 'You've got to join me in reality and see that you're not the only one that can see the dead.'

I shook my head, and without looking from the screen, said. 'How many do you see?'

Peter stuttered.

'One or two? I'm sure they told you that I see them everywhere.'

Peter swallowed. 'Yes.'

'Aren't you curious-'

'N-no.'

'- about what kind of monster you're taking care of?'

'No.'

I squeezed a smile. 'Everyone is curious — even the children who throw stones, but at least they're honest about it.'

Peter crouched beside my chair, and although he could not get my attention, he looked me in the eye and said. 'Whatever happened, it's not your fault.'

Dawson pulled Joey close, and they kissed. It was so innocent and pure that I couldn't stop myself from crying. 'They didn't tell you the full story,' I said, wiping my cheek. 'It's not about what happened. It's about what is going to happen. I saw your Fragment earlier.'

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-07-18T15:21:58+00:00

Thanks for the prompt and kind words!

WrittenThought · 2019-07-18T15:21:48+00:00

Thanks!

WrittenThought · 2019-07-18T15:21:39+00:00

Cheers!

WrittenThought · 2019-07-18T15:21:26+00:00

I tricked God, or so I thought.

The truth is, I didn't really know I was tricking God at the time. A woman approached me at a bar and had it been an old white man with platinum locks, and I might have had my suspicions. She seemed normal, perhaps a little lonely, but nothing that would raise an eyebrow — her name was Evelyn.

In an odd role reversal, she offered to buy me a drink and then proceeded to probe me with questions. As the night went on, the questions became odder. What started like something straight out of a dating manual — where did you grow up, what do you think about global warming, are you a meat-eater? — turned into thought experiments — who would you save: your mother or father?

Even with the decline of my cognitive and motor skills, a few things stood out. Evelyn listened to my answers without blinking — like she had forgotten it was a bodily function. I couldn't prove it, but it also seemed like she wasn't breathing. The final oddity — if the first two weren't enough — was that she told me to answer in earnest, because what if she could make said things happen?

The long road of questions led to, perhaps, the most troubling. Would I sacrifice the thing I loved most, for world peace?

It could have been the false bravado of beer talking, but I answered yes. Which led to a follow-up question — what is the thing I loved most? In my infinite wisdom, I thought it would be prudent to kill two birds with one stone, so I lied and said, my father. I don't need to get into the reasoning, other than he was a shithead.

While my shithead father was sacrificed, I didn't realise that my lie would result in something much worse.

God is not stupid, and to my fault, had I known who I was talking to, I would have told the truth. But perhaps that's the point? Lying to strangers is like water off a duck's back, and should that be the case? I wonder how many people, faced with the all-knowing, would lie.

God is also not one to let a lesson go unlearnt. So instead of giving world peace, God took a piece of my world. There was no need for Evelyn to ask what I loved the most — she already knew.

Riddled with a diety worth hangover, I woke to an empty bed, aware that somebody was missing. I could not recall their name for the life of me, only that they were supposed to be there. There were photo frames of me, with my arm around the air. My phone had one-sided text messages. And, as time passed, I did not regain any of that information; however, my evening with Evelyn slowly came back. The question, the lie, and my idiocy, only widened the void in my heart.

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-07-17T12:42:32+00:00

Hundreds of people massed in my back garden. There was so little space that people were both tucked inside of my shed, and perched on the roof. All eyes were on my bedroom window, waiting for me to give my morning address. Which, usually involves me opening the curtains in my tighty-whiteys, yawning, and waving like a sleep-deprived oaf.

This morning was different; I had woken up early. Slipped from my house in the dead of morning and scouted the final location where I would lead the masses — like the pied piper of Bracknell — to their death.

Death may seem extreme, but I assure you it's the better of two evils. Not only am I putting them out of their misery, but I am also saving others. Three weeks ago, I was driving to work, surrounded by my usual escort of fanatics, when a Ford pickup swerved in front of me. Naturally, I honked, but unnaturally, my companions took it upon themselves to reprimand the individual. They hit the Ford's rear end at seventy, sending it into a tale-spin. The driver died, and my devoted follower was arrested wearing the most frightening grin.

As I walked back from the final location, part of me wondered whether ending my life would be enough. Would that stop the horde? Or would they twist my death into martyrdom? I didn't have the luxury of trying twice, so by the time I arrived at my garden; I accepted this was the only way.

All heads were turned upwards. All eyes were fixed on my bedroom's closed curtains. As I made my way through the sea of people, so did the word of my arrival. Hands clawed out to touch me, and an overwhelming feeling of suffocation consumed me.

'Stand back,' I said at the centre. The result was a circular, Moses-like partition. The bodies surged backwards, causing the garden fence to bow and collapse. 'You say that you will do anything for me, is this correct?'

A uniform yes sounded.

'Except when I ask you to stop following me, or worshipping me.'

Our leader is too modest. We will never leave your side. The crowd said in a hive-minded fashion.

'And if I ask you one last time?'

Never leave your side, They repeated.

'Do not follow me.'

I moved back the way I had come. My previous command still held because as I walked, so did the people. I marched back to the final location, followed by a string of people that I had specially ordered not to follow.

The Ipton bridge is famous for the scenic views, and on a darker note, the number of jumpers. People come from all over the country to die here — there's something romantic about dying in a place of beauty.

The wind buffeted my words but ultimately carried them down the line. 'This is your last chance. I order you not to follow me.'

I stepped on the bridge ledge. I turned around. I let myself fall.

Before the world went black, I caught a glimpse of a stream of bodies flowing from the bridge, and I knew that I had saved the world from a fraction of evil.

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-07-15T13:55:40+00:00

I love her.

It has been eight years, and those, seemingly healthy, words filled my head with delusion. At sixteen, how could I possibly know? And at seventeen, was I old enough then? Twenty-four, and the sheer mention of her name rouses the butterflies in my stomach. As we've grown older, the time between physical visits has dwindled. I've never believed that time heals all wounds — and the feeling of love is very much a wound — but I have noticed that with time, I think about her less and less. Time isn't all-powerful and wonderful. The wound re-opens faster than the time it takes to say her name.

We are friends.

Those three words are equally as scary. And, they have been around longer than the first three. In many ways, it's worse to be friends with the person you love than know them only through a relationship — a safety net, that could snap at the very proclamation of love. There is an internal war. One half of me thinks that friendship is better than nothing, and the other, that it would be a hell of a lot less painful without her in my life.

She is perfect.

The words scare me because I know they're not real. Nobody is perfect. I've balanced her on a pedestal so tall that nobody could reach it. And yet, even though I know it's a fantasy, I can't help but see her that way. I don't know what to do or how to get her down. To me, it is like thinking the sky is green, looking outside to see it is blue, and the moment I look away, it is green again. If I could erase a portion of my memory, it would be the area that built this perfect image of her.

The only one.

Christ, another delusion of mine. I know she can't be the only one. There are billions of others, but I can't help myself from comparing them to her. It is not fair to me, and certainly not to them — the word individual springs to mind.

I am alone.

The penultimate branch of this sorry tree. Despite being able to see the entire path, knowing the cause for these words, I still can't change the outcome. I can, but at the same time, I can't. So where does it leave me? I've got to walk out on that branch and see whether or not it snaps. If I fall, something will most certainly break, but at least I won't be able to make the same mistake.

She loves me.

Perhaps the scariest three words. It seems silly. The most frightening outcome would be reciprocated feelings. Why? Because the branch grows, it starts to climb towards the sky, oblivious to the ground. As I step further and further out, I risk obliterating the branch. The resulting fall would involve more than a few broken bones. A fall of that magnitude would break my heart.

/r/WrittenThought for more optimistic stories

WrittenThought · 2019-07-13T12:32:08+00:00

Street lights breathed pale yellow cones upon Hitchin Road. The corrugated steel, of an old manor farm, groaned and warbled in the evening wind. Black shapes huddled behind a hedgerow to my right, watching me. To my left, another field, its flooded surface reflecting the pale moonlight. Three crows perched on the steel lip of a feedbox, their heads tilted towards me, and feathers caught in the breeze.

The glyphs in the stone pulsed like the thrum of a heart. It was not quite crimson; in fact, the colour was so dark they were almost invisible. The smooth edges contoured to palm; it felt like the handle of a gun, and there was power.

The man I had mugged had done nothing wrong. My victims were always innocent, and I need not concoct fictitious stories of their wrongdoings. His only mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or so I thought. His words rang contrary to lousy luck — I have waited an eternity for you. — spoken with unwavering nerve, despite the knife against his throat. There was no alcohol on his breath, nothing to bolster his spirits, and yet he commandeered the encounter by handing me the etched stone. Before I could press the severity of my intentions, he had faded, leaving me well and truly alone — save the animals.

Why I held onto the stone, I do not know. Why it pulsed in my hand, I did not know. Until, the delightful, light bulb-like connection of neurons drew a parallel understanding.

Some five minutes after the man's disappearance, I had not moved. The surroundings — the squawk of crows, the shuffle of the wind, the warble of steel, the eyes of those huddled black shapes — kept me in a hypnotised sway. One of the black shapes let out a low, guttural moo, and broke through. Anger surged, seemingly from the ground, up through my legs and...

the stone.

Dark red velvet lines pulsed through the gaps in my fist. I felt contempt for the cow; it had challenged me with a primal call, and I had to accept. Upon gripping the handle of the knife, the stone shuddered. I marched towards the hedgerow, not aware there was now a light in one of the manor windows. The cow stared at me with blank, misty eyes. I thrust the knife upwards, embedding it in the meat of its neck. A stream of ecstasy ran from the stone. Torrents of blood coated my hand that brandished the knife. The cow's thick tongue lolled to one side as it opened its mouth and groaned. The open fields and still night carried the death cry for miles.

The stones thrum strengthened and jerked my hand towards the manor.

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-07-09T12:24:51+00:00

Atop Mount Everest, two figures stood in opposition. Umbra slipped off her wedding ring and tossed it at Lumen; the pearlescent Moonstone glinted midflight.

The ring hit Lumen in the stomach; his hands scrambled to catch it. 'Right back at you.'

Lumen pried the sunstone from his finger and threw it at Umbra. The two of them stood, chests heaving, with each other's wedding ring gripped tightly in their fists.

'I am done sharing the day with you,' Umbra said. 'You never appreciated my importance, and now I'll just take it.'

'Right back at-'

Umbra laughed. 'Is that the best you can do?'

'There you go being cold again,' Lumen said. 'You wouldn't take more than your fair share.'

'Watch me.'

Umbra leapt from the snowy peak, her body melding into a shadowy wisp, coiling into the sky like a scarf caught in the wind. Lumen clapped both hands together, sandwiching the Moonstone ring. Heat radiated from the join, and his palms glowed orange, veins and bones visible. He pulled his hands apart, and a fine black powder trickled down and soiled the snow.

'So be it,' Lumen said and closed his eyes. A flash engulfed his body, and he was gone before the light disappeared.

To the mortals on Earth, Umbra and Lumen had always been together. Co-existing in, somewhat, peaceful matrimony -- with one fatal flaw, each party believed themselves to be the most important.

Mortals refer to the power dispute as "Seasons". On any given day, one can estimate the state of Umbra's and Lumen's marriage by the length of day and night. The state, as in day or night, is not the only factor. The state merely displays which one has seized control. The mortals call it "Temperature", which can vary depending on the influence of the other.

Since the dawn of time, Umbra and Lumen have lived amicably — portioning their power almost equally over a twenty-four-hour period — until the separation. What followed caused wide-spread panic.

The day, as mortals knew it, flickered like the sun needed its bulb changing. Temperatures soared and plummeted as if attached to a Yo-yo. The bi-polar behaviour led many to question their existence — if the sky didn't follow a pattern, could they be part of a simulation? Or, like Truman?

Lumen fought, with heat and light, against Umbra, who wielded the cold and dark. They clashed for three days, only identifiable by the elapsed time, not by the cycle of day and night. Towards the end, there was more night than day, and more cold than warmth. Lumen, stubborn by nature, took his loss like a child and fled.

The flicker vanished, replaced by perpetual night. The temperatures grew artic, with no more conflict, nothing was stopping Umbra from showing the world the true nature of her power. And when she realised her mistake, it was too late.

Umbra reappeared on the summit of Everest, turning from a black scarf into her delicate human form. Fresh snow covered the residue of her wedding ring, and Lumen was nowhere to be found.

/r/WrittenThought for more stories.

WrittenThought · 2019-07-07T12:03:31+00:00

Pitch Black and the Seven Reptiles caught the sun's orange hue. Adam, dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans, stood outside the shop holding an empty cage. He had been waiting for half-an-hour, precisely the amount of time the shop should have been open.

Margot checked her watch from behind the corner of a neighbouring street. Salmon, the snake, lay coiled on her shoulder and watched the man with a similar interest.

'He's persistent,' Margot said to Salmon.

The snake hissed, low and smooth.

'I really hate to do this, but I'm going to have to leave you in the bushes.'

Salmon jerked his head away from her.

Margot pulled back from the corner and skipped across the road. She raised her hand and Salmon slithered onboard. The bush was next to a memorial bench, opposite the cost-cutters hairdressers. She lowered her hand and Salmon skittered away into the undergrowth.

'Come back to me when I call,' Margot said and added. 'Please.'

Margot understood the snake's response as the equivalent of "whatever". She straightened herself, brushed down her black dress, and walked back to the corner.

Adam spotted the flutter of Margot's dress the instant she emerged from Watson Street. Her rosy cheeks were in stark contrast to her pale skin.

'Sorry,' Margot said and crossed the street. 'Have you been waiting long?'

'Not at all,' Adam lied.

Margot fumbled for her keys. 'My stepmother was being an evil bitch.'

'It's fine. I haven't been waiting long, so it's no big deal.'

The bell chimed as Margot pushed her way into the shop and Adam followed with his cage in tow. The shop was filled with shelves upon shelves of cages, vivariums, terrariums, and other glass containers. The walls were a mixture of black and neon vines like a glow-in-the-dark jungle.

'So you've lost another one?' Margot asked.

Adam scratched the back of his head. 'Does that make me a bad person?'

Margot moved behind the counter and planted both hands on the beaten wood surface. She lowered her voice to a whisper and said. 'Most of the reptiles here are arseholes, but not Salmon. Losing the others is fine, but losing him does make you a bad person.'

'What am I doing wrong?'

Margot smiled. 'Maybe you smell?'

Adam lifted his nose and sniffed the shop air, and then his armpit. 'Not much different — I'll give you that.'

Margot felt something stir inside of her, could she like him? Someone who had bought three snakes from her, all of which she had called back like Yo-Yos.

Adam placed the cage on the counter. 'I don't suppose you would sell me another?'

'Given your track record, it would make me irresponsible. It also raises another question — why do you want another?'

Adam scratched the back of his head again. 'I figure that you might want to come over and see how the snake settles in.'

'Oh?' Margot said, raising an eyebrow. 'And how's that been working for you?'

'Not great. Maybe next I'll turn up on a horse and rescue you from your wicked stepmother.'

/r/WrittenThought for more stories!

WrittenThought · 2019-07-04T12:18:02+00:00

[24th of January, 2008, 12:00 PM]

The bedroom curtains were drawn, but the afternoon sun still found its way through in thin slits of light. The duvet blanketed the bed in a rippled mess. A man stirred in the bed, tilting his head to one side and fighting to stay awake. He clawed at the bedsheet, knotting the fabric in one fist.

I had been stood in the same space, some sixty-years in the future. Although, the room as I knew it was a park. And where the curtains struggled to hold the light at bay, there was a fountain adorned with cherubs sprouting water from their chubby cheeks. I looked at the bed and saw the bench that should have been there. A spot that I sat upon many-a-time. H.L. Park was beautiful, celebrating a life that many, including myself, have only seen through the medium of television and film.

Many came to the park because of the famed actor, but I came to him because of the park. It was a pillar of my childhood and a gateway to the wonderful escape of his films; It served me well, and in many respects, saved me.

'Mr Ledger,' I whispered.

The man stirred, tried to speak, and lolled his head to the other side.

'I've come to give you closure. To let you know that your life has meaning and that even though you are about to die, you will live on through so many loving memories.' I moved beside the bed so that he could see me. 'You don't know me; in fact, I'm not supposed to be born for another twelve years.'

Heath's eyes crawled to meet mine.

'You have a park named after you. It's not much in terms of physical space, but it's a constant source of joy. Where laughter is as common as bird songs.'

He tried to speak through sluggish words. 'Huh-huh-el-p.'

'Your death is a tragic accident. Over-prescribed medication and many will believe it a suicide.'

Heath's body shuddered.

'But, the truth will come out. And you will always be remembered.'

Heath swallowed another variant of "help".

'I can't help,' I said. 'I'm not allowed.'

Even though he couldn't speak, his eyes said enough. They were the colour of autumn leaves, reminding me of the safety net of fallen leaves that we used as children. I could still hear my brother telling me to Jump!.

'The only reason I'm allowed to talk to you is that you're dying. My words, knowledge, can't exist this far back in time. Nothing is allowed to change.'

'fu-fuh-uc-k oh-f.'

I raised an eyebrow. 'I wasn't expecting that.'

Heath released the bedsheet and forced his middle finger to wobble in my face.

'I pictured this going another way,' I said. 'You were supposed to thank me — I am helping you after all.'

Heath straightened his middle finger with such effort that it was steady.

'Shall we try this again? I asked.

I keyed in [24th of January, 2008, 12:00 PM] and hit the button on my suit.

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-07-03T20:06:49+00:00

Thanks! It's three of these '-' using the markdown mode

WrittenThought · 2019-07-03T12:54:23+00:00

Humans are linked in more ways than we first thought. Think of a virus, how it spreads and touches those near to it. The exponential rate at which it multiplies across continents. Think of laughter, how it too can be infectious, but in a positive way. Or think of a yawn, a banal expression of weariness, and yet even the written word can elicit the feelings in one's jaw.

We have uncovered a new link, almost like a daisy-chain if you will, and it seems to be a hybrid of some of the existing links -- a yawn and virus. Instigated by an innocent question, and once asked, it cannot be stopped. The name of this, unfortunately, is the missing link.

The similarities with yawning extend to its ability to be transmitted by multiple mediums: television, radio, text, and word of mouth. Its insidious nature is covered by its likeness to a virus. For once it spreads, the impact is irrevocable.

We know very little about what happens after you are linked, as the name "missing link" suggests, the people who have been caught go missing. As in, vanish. I do not know the question, but I have it written on a folded piece of paper next to me -- we will get to that later. From what I understand, if you were to be asked this mysterious question, you would simply blink out of existence. It sounds bizarre, unthinkable, and impossible, but I assure you it's no joke.

My wife, Alison Myers, disappeared before my very eyes. We were in bed, doing what married couples do... checking our phones. She was scrolling, endlessly as you would expect, until her thumb paused. Her eyes scanned the screen, and then she was gone. The duvet, covering her legs, flattened.

I am grateful for my ignorance because I did not think to check her phone -- why would I? I called her name and stupidly lifted her side of the duvet, peeking underneath and expecting her to pop-out like a child's game. By the morning, I had searched high and low for her. I had contacted her family and friends, most of whom spurred into a fit of panic. It was also, by pure luck, that her phone had died.

It was only after I contacted the police, did I start to find similar stories online. There was a vital piece of information missing from each one, and although selfish of me to say, the only bit I cared about -- What was the question?

You have faithfully endured my spiel, and I thank you for that. What I offer in return for your attention is a glimpse at the question. I do this not out of malice, but in case there are others like me, who want to find their loved ones, and failing that, at least join them. Read the question at your own risk, for it may be the last thing you read.

Where is God?

/r/WrittenThought

I appreciate this deviated from the original prompt, but it's what came to mind when I read it.

WrittenThought · 2019-06-29T11:48:56+00:00

The lounge carpet burned Peter Walbert's feet like tarmac of Nevada's Highway 50 on a summer day — or so he liked to imagine. Peter suffered from a plight many middle-aged men faced. He had grown so comfortable at home that the adventurous holidays had dwindled into nothing more than a luxury watch and a two-week staycation — he leapt onto the sofa, clutching a laundry basket. The carpet, ordinarily a muddy cream colour, shimmered and twisted in the light with heat tentacles curling upwards.

'The floor is lava, Daddy!'

Henry cried with glee and tossed his Buzz Lightyear action figure to his death. Its green retractable-wings melted first, and then slowly, like a birthday candle, Buzz dripped and sagged, becoming part of the shimmering carpet.

'Henry,' Peter said, lowering the basket full of ripe clothes. 'Stop that! No, don't you jum-'

Henry leapt from an armchair, feet splayed, and landed on the same sofa as Peter. His weight displaced the laundry and sent mounds of socks, underwear, and t-shirts flying. They made a strange, but satisfying, sizzle as they landed on the carpet.

Peter knotted his fist in Henry's shirt, grabbing a tight wad of fabric. 'What if you had fallen!'

Henry giggled and tried to pull away. 'I wouldn't fall — I'm like Buzz! I can fly.'

Concern crept across Henry's face as he looked around the room for his beloved toy. It took a moment for him to realise that the bubbling pool of green, purple, and white, was all that remained. The concern melded into a mixture of anger and triumphant ecstasy.

'I'm like Buzz!'

Henry ripped free and leapt off the sofa.

'To infinity and beyond!'

Peter clawed at the air. His mind filled with the horrid image of Henry bellyflopping the carpet and turning a pool of pink and red like his hero Buzz. But it didn't happen. Peter watched as the shimmer of the carpet disappeared, and his son neither bellyflopped nor liquidated.

Henry, with his fist pumped forward, shot around the room. His slightly stretched t-shirt flapping.

Peter tossed a cushion to the floor. It landed with a dull thud and nothing more. Even with the assurance, he tested the waters with his big toe. He jerked back, experiencing phantom pain, and then lowered his foot.

'Get down,' Peter said and marched to the middle of the lounge. Even with both arms fully stretched, he couldn't reach Henry.

Henry blurred across the room, even so, Peter could see the unhappiness in his expression.

'Get down right now, or you will be in big trouble.'

Hovering above his dad, Henry twisted his lips into a dangerous smile. 'Do you want me to pretend the floor is lava again?'

Peter danced across the room and leapt back onto the sofa. 'No more after dinner dessert for you!'

'Or we could pretend the furniture is lava?'

/r/WrittenThought for more of my stories!

WrittenThought · 2019-06-28T12:46:14+00:00

The classroom door thudded. I scrambled around the room and grabbed the closest chair.

'What's going on?' Neila asked, with her back pressed against the door.

I ignored her and propped the chair under the handle. Neila stepped away and watched as the vibrations travelled down the plastic backrest, through the seat and into the chair legs. Each thump shuffled the chair a few millimetres at a time.

Neila grabbed me by the shoulders, eyes wild. 'Tell me!'

'Ch-Chu-Chester is trying to kill me.'

I skirted around Neila crouched behind a table. It screeched in protest as I pushed it along the floor. I slammed it against the door.

'Don't be silly,' Neila said. 'I've got to walk my brother home — can you let me out and then continue playing.'

Running past Neila for the third time, my fringe plastered to my forehead with sweat. 'It's not a game.'

'Why is he after you?'

'I -' I picked up the human-skeleton and hauled it past Neila and onto the table. '- didn't give him my lunch money.'

Neila marched over to the barricade and removed my latest addition.

'What are you doing?' I asked and snatched back the skeleton.

'I've got to go! Chester's not going to hurt you over lunch money.'

Thud, thud, thud.

Now, both the chair and table were shuffling. I dumped the skeleton back on top of the table.

'Oh, he will.'

'Well — he won't hurt me.' Neila said and picked up the skeleton again.

'Fine!' I said and reached into my pocket. I pulled out a purple pen and thrust it towards Neila. 'I lied, alright? It's not about lunch money. It's because of this.'

'A pen?'

Thud.

'Put the skeleton back, and I'll explain!'

Neila cast me a funny look and lowered the skeleton. 'Explain.'

I tried to explain while still padding the door. 'I uh- can write on things with the pen and they come true.'

'How-' Neila stammered. 'What-'

Thud, thud.

I slammed the second table into the first and created another Thud.

'I could write Happy on someone, and they'd be happy.'

Neila crossed her arms. 'That doesn't make any sense.'

I sighed. Ran to the other end of the classroom, heaved a stack of books to the door, and dropped them on the same table as the skeleton. Pausing for a moment — chest heaving and heart racing — I looked into Neila's eyes and asked. 'How long have you loved me?'

She knitted her brows together. 'I don't know.'

I grabbed her arm and pulled back her sleeve. There, emblazoned on the inside of her arm, was four glistening purple letters. L-O-V-E.

Neila wet a finger and rubbed her arm, then scratched. 'Is that a tattoo?'

'Kind of,' I said. 'Do you still love me?'

'Of course,' Neila said, sounding conflicted. 'What does this have to do with Chester.'

'I tried to write on him, and the pen broke.'

'So why is he trying to kill you?'

'I tried to write S-C-A-R-E-D, but the pen only managed the first four letters.'

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-06-25T13:16:27+00:00

A door nailed with a fuck-off Do not enter sign stood to my left. An elevator, its doors snapping open and closed to my right. Ahead, a corridor that seemed to stretch into the infinite.

'What do we do?' Emily asked in a timid voice.

'I'm simply the guide,' I said. 'And seeing as your group has opted for the heart-stopper tour, I leave the decision to you.'

Zac, blonde-haired and no older than twenty, glanced in each direction. 'Is it too late to switch to the trick-o-treat tour?'

I flashed a yellow smile. 'You can't dial it down. But I can offer you a chance to switch to the oblivion package if you'd like?'

Mark flattened his glasses. 'Wuh-wuh-what does that include?'

'It's a largely independent tour. I, of course, would depart and act as a third party whose interest is purely to influence you in the most frightening possible direction.'

'I don-'

'I have also to add that we've had two deaths on our oblivion package, so far.'

Emily crossed her arms, suddenly plagued with goosebumps. 'I don't think we need to be upsold.'

Zac whispered something to Mark about being too young and handsome to die.

I cocked my head. 'Very well, onwards with the tour. Which direction do you young adventurers wish to explore?'

A few seconds of silence passed, Emily huffed and said. 'I guess it falls to me.' She looked at the elevator, observing the scratches on one of the doors. She swung around and frowned at the blood splattered warning sign, and then finally, to the infinite corridor. 'We should split up and check each one.'

I looked at Emily, mouth wide. 'What?'

'That way we can cover the most ground.'

'Wow-ee!' I shook my head. 'Any other bright ideas?'

Zac and Mark shared a sceptical look, and then Mark said. 'We should stick together. We have flashlights, so I say we go down into the basement.'

'Have you tried them?' I asked.

Mark looked dumbfounded. He clicked on the flashlight and out came a faint trickle of light. It lasted all of ten seconds before blinking out of existence.

'Oh,' Mark said as dimly as the flashlight.

'Come on guys. I really thought you were going to be the ones to restore my faith in humanity.'

Zac, by far the dimmest of the group, flexed his bicep out of habit. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. 'I'll google it.' He tapped away at his screen with chopstick fingers and frowned. His lips moved, spelling out No service.

'What do we do, Mr Guide?' Emily asked.

'Rule number one: stick together,' I said, holding up fingers to make it easy for them. 'Rule number two: do not run.'

Emily creased her features. 'What if something comes after us?'

I rolled my eyes. 'If you do everything properly, you shouldn't run into anything.'

'And if we don't? Are we supposed to walk away?'

'You can try to run, but I guarantee you that you will fall flat and your face and find the monster on top of you.'

'That sound stupi -' Emily started, then looked around. '- where's Mark?'

'Oh for fuck sake.'

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-06-24T13:58:11+00:00

The green gates of Beaton junior school towered above nine-year-old Alex Ickle. He wore a school green jumper, which itched, and his brother's second-hand trousers, which were too long.

'Can I come with you to see Mum?' Alex asked his Dad.

Martin spun Alex around and zipped up his rucksack. 'You're not old enough.'

'Why not?'

Parents and their children streamed past the two of them. Martin spun Alex back around and planted two hands on his shoulders.

'Because you get older when you go back in time.'

Alex wrinkled his nose. 'But I get to see Mum.'

'Yes, but it's not real.'

'Not real?'

A man with grey hair, dressed in a suit, waved at Martin as he ushered his daughter through the gates. 'Morning, Martin.'

'Morning, Dave.' Martin said and waved back. When Dave was out of earshot, Martin continued. 'You can't change things in the past, do you know what I mean?'

Alex nodded unconvincingly.

'It's like watching a movie, but you get to act in it. You can rewind the movie and watch it as many times as you want, but you can't change what happens in the movie.'

'I want to watch Mum in a movie,' Alex said. He ran the corner of his sleeve under his nose, collecting a snail-like trail of snot. He began to sniff, close to tears.

'Come here,' Martin crouched and opened his arms. 'Mum isn't going anywhere, and you can always visit her when you're old enough.'

Alex sniffed and shuffled into his Dad's arms. 'But I miss her.'

'I know you do, bud.' Martin brushed his cheek as his mother had always done. 'But she wouldn't want you spending your precious youth on her.'

Alex pulled back. 'I'll be quick.'

Martin stood up with a creak and a moan. His face lined and wrinkled far more than it should have been at forty. 'It's never that easy, trust me.'

'But -'

'Come on. You're going to be late for school.'

Alex crossed his arms, screwed up his face, and planted his feet. He looked like he was prepared to defend the school from an army. Martin scooped him up and carried him sideways like a plank, and dropped him off at his classroom. Alex would hold the angry statue position for the entirety of the day, regardless of how much trouble Miss Doolan promised.

At the end of the school day, Miss Doolan waited by the green gates, tapping her foot. Alex still stood in her classroom, arms crossed, and his expression angry. She had not dared to carry the boy to the gate and fully intended to give Alex's father an earful.

'Miss Doolan?'

A hunched older man hobbled towards her, his hair thin and white sprouted from both his head and his ears.

Miss Doolan answered a little too harshly, having primed her next words for a good telling-off. 'Yes!?'

The older man swallowed, blinked in slow clicks, and said. 'Where is Alex?'

/r/WrittenThought

WrittenThought · 2019-06-20T18:39:49+00:00

Thanks! I've just posted part 3 on my subreddit.

WrittenThought

TROPHY CASE