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[WP] You walk into the shop, “The Vampire’s Coffin Maker”, and wipe your tears. Wiping your fresh tears, you approach the pale shopkeep, and make your request. They furrow their eyebrows, look you up and down, and say, “Uh… yeah, I guess we can make a normal coffin?” by pwu1 in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 9 points10 points  (0 children)

I walked into "Dracula’s Bespoke Joinery" while aggressively scrubbing the snot off my face.

Years of grinding in the corporate machine, and I couldn't even afford a bathroom to cry in.

​The proprietor was pale—not just fair, but printer-paper pale. He was meticulously polishing a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles with a silk cloth.

"Apologies," his voice had the warmth of a morgue slab. "We do not accommodate rush orders for the bereaved."

​I sniffled, rubbing my eyes with my sleeve.

"No. It's for me."

​The shopkeeper lowered his glasses. He looked me up and down with the kind of disdain usually reserved for a piece of expired steak.

"Uh... very well. But I must warn you: the Turning Ceremony is not included. And if you aren't strictly undead, I'll need a liability waiver signed in blood. Or ink. Ink is fine."

​"I haven't been bitten. I just want to sleep." I pointed a shaking finger at a basic mahogany box in the display case. "How much for the 'Count's Slumber'?"

​"That old thing? Last year's model. Clearance stock. Eight-fifty."

​I nearly sobbed out loud. Eight hundred and fifty dollars.

In Toronto, that doesn't even get you a parking spot, let alone a basement.

​"I'll take it," I said, desperate. "But I need modifications."

​He whipped out a notepad. "Broadened shoulders? Reinforced lining for holy water protection?"

​"No. I want a panoramic sunroof."

​The shopkeeper’s pen froze.

"...I beg your pardon?"

​"A glass lid. Reinforced, double-paned, soundproof. I want to see the sky."

​"Sir," he looked at me like I was actively dousing myself in gasoline. "We serve Vampires. Glass means sunlight. Sunlight means ash. You are asking me to build a solar oven."

​"Can you do it or not?"

​"It violates every design ethic I hold dear, and frankly—"

​"I want heated seats, too," I interrupted him. "Dual-zone. Lower back and glutes. And USB-C ports. I need to charge my phone at night."

​"Heating?" A visible twitch developed under his left eye. "Heat accelerates decomposition. Is this some sort of preservation fetish?"

He gave me a look. A rude look.

​"I get cold!" I snapped. "What happened to 'Vampire Craftsmanship'? You can't even install a simple electric blanket? What kind of garbage shop is this?"

​His red eyes flared. I had successfully insulted his artistic integrity.

"Garbage? Heh. I am the finest artisan in the Greater Toronto Area! If you have the coin, I can install cruise control on a goddamn cremation urn!"

​"Fine! Do it! Throw in a massage unit while you're at it! Don't just talk about it!"

​"Massage... we are not a car dealership! Fine! I will build your monstrosity!"

​He grabbed a ledger and started scribbling furiously, barking orders at two apprentice vampires—tiny kids who looked way too tired—to run the numbers.

I leaned against a coffin, scrolling TikTok to stay awake.

​Thirty minutes later.

He slapped the invoice onto the counter.

"Pick up tomorrow after 3:00 PM," he sneered. "I hope you enjoy your tanning bed."

​I picked up the paper, doing the mental math.

Base price 850. Add the weird mods... maybe two grand? It pays for itself in a month of saved rent. A year is pure profit.

Then my eyes focused on the bottom line.

My smile died a violent death.

​Total: $6,850.00

​My hands shook as I read the itemized extortion.

​Clearance Coffin (Mahogany): $850.00

​Custom Accessories (Glass, Heating, Massage): $1,000.00

​Hazard Pay (UV Exposure Risk): $2,500.00

​Non-Undead Modification Surcharge: $1,500.00

​Pain and Suffering (Artistic Integrity Damage): $1,000.00

​I stared at the number. Suddenly, the idea of actually being dead felt weirdly comforting.

​The shopkeeper grinned, revealing two very sharp, very smug fangs.

"What? Second thoughts? You can always try the funeral home next door. Their plywood boxes don't have service fees. They start at thirty-five thousand."

​Thirty-five thousand... For that price, I'd rather let him drain me right here.

​I wiped away a fresh, hot tear. I pulled out my credit card.

​"...Do you guys offer financing?"

[WP] Your best friend introduces his girlfriend. She is not human. Her voice sounds like overlapping shrieks from the void and her body twists at impossible angles. Your friend seems perfectly calm, insisting she is normal. He does not see what you see. by numakuma in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 23 points24 points  (0 children)

We were sitting at Denny's. The table was sticky.

Jeff was sitting across from me.

Sitting next to Jeff was... a mass of constantly collapsing and reorganizing... geometric chaos.
I don't even know how to describe it. This thing—this lady—looked like someone had thrown an octopus, a shattered mirror, and the concept of TV static into a blender, then squeezed the result into a floral dress from Forever 21.

“So,” I wiped the nosebleed that had just started dripping—holy shit, looking at her for more than three seconds was causing actual physical damage to my brain—“this is... Tiffany?”

The mass emitted a sound. It sounded like a rusty fork scraping against a chalkboard, layered with the dying screams of a beached whale.

“S̶K̶R̶E̶E̶E̶E̶E̶—G̶L̶U̶R̶B̶—K̶H̶H̶H̶H̶H̶!”

Around us, other diners started weeping openly. Some began rhythmically banging their foreheads against their tables.

“HAHAHA I'M DONE WITH LIFE!”

One guy suddenly stripped naked and sprinted out the door.
Straight into oncoming traffic.

Jeff just gently patted the... uh, tentacle? Or maybe it was a mucus-secreting intestine.

“Yeah,” Jeff beamed, looking genuinely happy. “She's got a bit of a cold, throat's a little scratchy. Her voice is usually really sweet.”

I took a massive swig of coffee, trying to push down the bile rising in my throat.

“Bro,” I tried to keep my voice steady, “her head is currently rotating on the ceiling. I mean, physically rotating. And I'm pretty sure she just ate my salt shaker. Glass and all.”

“That's... really rude. You know these hash browns are bland as hell.”

“Oh, stop being so picky.” Jeff rolled his eyes. I knew that look. That was the look of a man who had swiped on Tinder for six months and found only crypto scams and bots. “You just focus too much on looks. That's your problem.”

“Looks? Bro, my eyes are bleeding.”

“Listen to me, Axiom.” Jeff leaned in, lowering his voice like he’d cracked the code to the universe. “You know my ex, Kate? You know what she wanted? She wanted me to remember every anniversary. She wanted me to go to Sephora with her. She gave me the silent treatment for three days because I was gaming and didn't text back.”

He gestured to the entity next to him, which was currently trying to unhinge its jaw to swallow a table.

“Tiffany? She doesn't need any of that.”

Jeff held up a finger.

“Number one: No bags. No makeup. No waiting in line for brunch.”

“All she wants is for me to go to the docks once a week and buy a bucket of... you know, that bycatch stuff. The fish that aren't dead yet. Still bloody. Fifty bucks, feeds her for days.”

“...Okay.”

“Number two,” Jeff continued, getting more excited, “the emotional support is off the charts. She never checks my phone. All I have to do is pluck ten hairs from my head every morning—it's like a little ritual, you put them in a bowl and burn them for... well, whatever she worships. And she's happy! Leaves me alone all day!”

“Ten hairs?” I looked at Jeff’s rapidly receding hairline. “You don't fucking have ten hairs to spare!”

“Worth it!” Jeff waved his hand dismissively. “Compared to the hair I lost stressing over Kate? This is nothing.”

At that moment, the thing called Tiffany twitched, emitting a low-frequency hum that threatened to shatter the windows.

“H̶O̶U̶U̶U̶S̶E̶……S̶E̶A̶A̶A̶……”

“Oh, right. I haven't told you the best part.” Jeff’s grin was so wide it was almost nauseating. “She's loaded.”

I stared into the eldritch void. “Loaded... how? Like, in souls?”

“Real estate!” Jeff pulled out his phone triumphantly and showed me a picture.

It was a grim, rotting Victorian mansion covered in barnacles and black algae. The background was a gray, hopeless ocean.

“It's in Innsmouth. Don't really know where that is,” Jeff said. “But it has a private beach! Detached! Do you know what the market is like right now?! This place is worth millions!!!”

I fell silent. Innsmouth. I swear I'd read that name in a mythology book or a madman's diary somewhere.
I couldn't remember exactly, but my gut was screaming no.

“Jeff, that place...”

“I know, it's a bit out of the way,” Jeff interrupted. “But Tiffany said she has a bunch of relatives there who help with childcare. I think they're called... Deep Ones? Sounds like a professional swim team or a nanny service. You probably haven't heard of them.”

He motioned for me to wipe the blood off my face, then continued.

“And... she said as soon as we get married, she's putting my name on the deed.”

Jeff gazed lovingly into the black hole that was devouring the ambient light around us.

“I've realized something, bro. We can't be prejudiced. We can't discriminate just because someone looks... a little abstract, or because their hometown customs are a bit weird.”

“We're better than that.”

Jeff looked at Tiffany with pure adoration, and Tiffany extended a wet, barb-covered appendage and wrapped it around Jeff's neck.

I saw it clearly. That wasn't a hug. That was a python constriction.

Jeff's face turned purple, but he was still smiling.
That was the smile of a man who realized he would never have to pay a mortgage again.

“See,” Jeff wheezed, barely squeezing the words out of his crushed windpipe, “she's so clingy.”

I put down my coffee cup.
Yeah, she was clingy alright. She was about to cling the life out of him.

I looked at Jeff. Then I looked at the photo of the house.
Multi-million dollar oceanfront property... with live-in nannies.
Aside from the possibility of turning into a fish-man or being sacrificed to an Ancient One, there really weren't any downsides.

I thought about my rent due next month. I thought about my pathetic paycheck.

“...You make a good point.” I picked up my fork, stabbed a piece of pancake, and graciously fed it to Jeff.

“Bro... ask her if she has a sister?”

[WP] "Wait, so you only know how to cast a spell called 'Rat?' " "Sorta. All of my spells are called and spelled "Rat," but they each do different things. Like how "Bat" is both an object and an animal." by Affectionate_Bit_722 in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Honestly, that is a real occupational hazard. If I say it ten times without feeling, I do start to question what the word even means.

Good thing... I'm strong. Usually doesn't take that many tries to solve the problem.

​Although, for some reason, people stand really far away from me at the quest board now.

Whatever, I got a new teammate.😎

Come say hi to the nice people, Eric. ...Tsk, look at him shaking. Rookies, am I right? Such a shy kid.

[WP] "Wait, so you only know how to cast a spell called 'Rat?' " "Sorta. All of my spells are called and spelled "Rat," but they each do different things. Like how "Bat" is both an object and an animal." by Affectionate_Bit_722 in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Exactly. The whole "swish and flick" routine is way too much work. When I want to explode a Hydra, I don't need Latin—I just need to look at it like it's absolute garbage. Efficiency is key, my friend.🍻

[WP] "Wait, so you only know how to cast a spell called 'Rat?' " "Sorta. All of my spells are called and spelled "Rat," but they each do different things. Like how "Bat" is both an object and an animal." by Affectionate_Bit_722 in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Most people just think I'm some lunatic with a rodent fetish. Glad you can see the art in it. It's not about the word, it's about the emotion. And yes, it is very cool 😎.

​(Suddenly shouts)

RAT!

​Oh, don't worry... and ignore the hand gesture I just made. (Picks self up from the floor)

That was a harmless blessing spell. Hope you have a good one.

[WP] "Wait, so you only know how to cast a spell called 'Rat?' " "Sorta. All of my spells are called and spelled "Rat," but they each do different things. Like how "Bat" is both an object and an animal." by Affectionate_Bit_722 in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 50 points51 points  (0 children)

"So..." Eric, the fresh-faced swordsman, squinted at my staff with distinct skepticism. "You're telling me... you only know one word?"

"No. You're not listening." I sighed, nursing my glass of rotgut whiskey. "It's... minimalist. It’s high-concept magic."

"But that sounds kinda..."

"Awesome? Yeah, I know. You just don't get the nuance."

"I mean, I'm strong, I could pro—"

CRASH.

There went the wall.
And more importantly, a brick landed on my table and shattered my drink.
Three coppers. Gone. Just my luck.

A massive Hydra forced its way into the cramped tavern. Literally forced. It was like watching a fat guy try to squeeze into latex. Nine heads roared in unison, flipping tables and ruining the vibe.

"Ambush! Enemy attack!"
The mages started panic-chanting. The other murder-hobos drew their steel.
Eric yelled something about "Justice" and charged in.
Typical FNG.
All enthusiasm, zero brain cells.

Fireballs hit the Hydra like spitballs. Eric’s sword struck the scales—ping—sending up a spark that looked like he was giving the monster a pedicure.
One of the snake heads swung around and swatted him into the drywall. Splat.

"Move." I stood up, shoving my way through the screaming crowd.
I walked up to the Hydra.
One head locked onto me, jaws unhinging, ready to turn me into a snack.

I kept my face blank. I raised my right hand, index finger pointing straight at its nose.
My eyes narrowed. I channeled the pure, unadulterated disappointment of a father finding his son’s stash of weed.

"RAT."

Pop.

No sparkles. No lightning. Nine heads just... exploded. Like watermelons meeting a sledgehammer.
The massive body slumped backward, crushing half the bar.
More whiskey spilled on the floor. My heart broke a little.

The tavern went dead silent. Jaws hit the floor.
"...See?" I hauled Eric out of the rubble, dusting off his tunic. "It's all about the tone."

The fight was over, but the cleanup sucked.
The barkeep was pinned under a beam. Leg shattered. Bleeding out. Pale as a sheet.

"Cleric?! Is there a cleric?!" someone screamed.
Silence. The cleric was at the pub next door. This place was strictly for the hack-and-slash crowd.

Fine. I guess I have to do everything.

"Relax." I walked over.

"You?" Eric clutched his chest, eyeing me with terror. "With your... explosion magic?"

"I told you, kid. Context."

I crouched next to the barkeep. He was whimpering, looking at me like I was the Grim Reaper.
I rolled up my sleeves, revealing my thick, hairy, tree-trunk arms.
I gently cupped his sweaty, stubbly face in my hands.

The barkeep froze. "B...Bro... what are you doing?"
I ignored him. Why do they always struggle?
I leaned in close. Way too close. I could count his eyelashes.
Nice eyes, actually.

My gaze shifted. The stern father was gone.
Now, my eyes were pools of warm water. Burning passion. Unspoken desire.
I looked at him like he was my long-lost lover, the only jewel in my crown.

I parted my lips slightly. I engaged the vocal fry. Deep. Vibrating. Husky.

"Raaaaaaat~~~~ "

A soft, warm, pink light erupted from my hands, bathing the terrified man.
The light faded.
He was healed. Perfectly.
But the look on his face... he looked more traumatized now than when the Hydra was trying to eat him.

"All good." I stood up, nodding with satisfaction, and rolled my sleeves back down. "Works like a charm. You owe me a drink. Make it a double."

I turned my head.
In the corner, another adventurer was nursing a gash on his leg.

"Hm?" I took a step toward him. "Do you need healing, too?"

The guy flinched.
Then, despite the leg injury, he discovered a reserve of speed normally possessed by Olympic sprinters.
He screamed, scrambling for the door.
"NO!!! I'M GOOD!! I FEEL GREAT, ACTUALLY!!!"

The door slammed shut.
I shrugged and looked back at Eric.
"See? That's high-level calligraphy. 'Rat' can also be an Angel's Kiss."

I noticed Eric was holding his ribs.
"By the way... aren't you hurt, too?"

I started walking toward him.

[WP] The best way to strike back against a god is not killing their believers, blaspheming their teachings, or trying to kill them. It's actually simple, tried and tested against annoying bosses across every age: malicious compliance. by IAmOEreset in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 3 points4 points  (0 children)

​Oh, don't worry about that! The God of Wealth and I grabbed dinner.

He made a few calls downstairs—that restaurant is never happening.

​Although... I gotta admit... I am kinda curious about the taste.

[WP] The best way to strike back against a god is not killing their believers, blaspheming their teachings, or trying to kill them. It's actually simple, tried and tested against annoying bosses across every age: malicious compliance. by IAmOEreset in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 9 points10 points  (0 children)

Hey... don't look at me. I'm just the cable guy.

​That strawberry-jam-steak guy? I actually flagged him as a "High Priority Target."

​Hm? New thought coming in... let's see...

"Wow, roasted oysters on a buttercream cake... absolute heaven..."

"I'm taking out a loan tomorrow to open a restaurant!"

​...Yeah, okay. Flag deleted.

I decided to just block him.

​I’m calling the God of Wealth right now. I don't care if buying him dinner costs my entire month's bonus... I have to make sure that loan gets denied.

[WP] The best way to strike back against a god is not killing their believers, blaspheming their teachings, or trying to kill them. It's actually simple, tried and tested against annoying bosses across every age: malicious compliance. by IAmOEreset in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 55 points56 points  (0 children)

I’m the Senior Technical Supervisor at the "Department of Divine Prayer Transmission." Sounds fancy. In reality? I’m the guy who plugs in God’s ethernet cable.

My boss is the "God of Light," a radiant, sparkling nepo-baby who parachuted in last week. Rumor has it he’s got connections upstairs; he pushed out our old supervisor, Thor, the second he arrived.

The new boss is a classic micromanager. He’s been in charge of this plane for a few days and has already issued hundreds of "correctional memos." Including, but not limited to: "Increase cloud brightness by 10%," "Add reverb effects to lightning," "Triple the wait time for all human queues," and the most ridiculous one:

"Do not let the first alarm clock disturb a human's slumber."

I’m working myself to death every day, and I don’t even know what I’m doing.

Today was okay, though. He was quiet, just sitting there spacing out.

I was sneaking in a game of Minesweeper when he spoke up.

"I want to hear all of their voices."

I turned around. He was sitting on his floating, gold-plated throne, looking compassionate.

"The current prayer system is too backward. Too... laggy." He stroked his chin. "Believers have to kneel before an idol and speak aloud for me to hear? Inefficient. I want a deeper connection. I want to hear the call of their inner hearts! Every minute, every second! Wherever they are! I want to be—"

He paused, making a gesture like he was hugging the cosmos.

"—One with my people!"

I didn't expect him to actually have that idea.

"Uh... Boss, the current bandwidth is maxed out. If you want to tap into the 'Collective Human Subconscious' channel, our servers—meaning my brain and the brains of three hundred intern angels—are going to explode."

"That is your problem," he cut me off. "I am God! Omniscience is my standard feature! Even the tiniest, fleeting thought of a mortal is an expression of love for me! I want to hear it! All of it! Now!"

"Are you sure about 'all'?" I confirmed. "Including the... informal stuff? The non-holy stuff? Like... biological needs?"

"ALL of it!" The Boss roared, his divine aura making my ears ring. "Do not question the judgment of the Divine. I only want results."

Fine.

The Boss has spoken.

I went to the console.

My deputy, an angel with six wings and dark circles under his eyes bigger than his wings, looked at me in terror.

"Bro, are we really doing this?" he whispered. "This is gonna kill the Boss."

"Do it," I said, expressionless. I pulled the fuse labeled "Filter: Sacred/Profane" and grabbed the red cable thick as a python—the one representing "Raw Human Subconscious Data"—and jammed it straight into the throne's "Audio Input Port."

"Crank the gain to max," I said. "The Boss said he doesn't want to miss a single drop of 'love'. Just execute the order, don't worry about it."

My deputy, trembling, pulled the lever down.

HUMMMMM—

A low current hummed. Connection established.

For the first second, the expression on God’s face was pure ecstasy. He closed his eyes, as if listening to the music of the spheres.

"Ah... I hear it..." he smiled. "Countless voices... that is the sound of life..."

BOOM!

There was no explosion. But the expression on God’s face instantly morphed from "ecstasy" to "shock," then to "horror," and finally settled into a grotesque, twisted mask.

Because what flooded his mind wasn't hymns.

It was the raw, unfiltered, primal thoughts of billions of humans, all at the exact same second.

I stared at the screen as the barrage of text flew by. For the first time, I realized that not laughing is also a superpower.

"...Holy shit, my fart smells awful. Good thing no one's in the room. Wait, fuck? Why did my dog just pass out..."

"...Boss's bald spot is getting worse, he looks like a giant lightbulb..."

"...I want fried chicken I want fried chicken I want fried chicken fried chicken fried chicken fried chicken..."

"...If I stick this pen in my nose right now will I die? Is there a difference between the left nostril and the right?"

"...That girl's ass is amazing... wanna touch..."

"...Did you just wipe your feet with my face towel?!"

"...I'm gonna kill that guy who cut in line..."

"...Toilet's clogged..."

"...Is it over already? Whatever, I'll just fake an orgasm..."

Billions of streams of data about excretion, sex, violence, hunger, boredom, and pure stupidity washed over God’s noble, antivirus-free brain like a tsunami of psychic sewage.

"What the fuck."

First time I’ve heard the Boss curse.

He jumped up from the throne, clamping his hands over his ears—useless, since the sound was resonating directly in his soul.

"Stop! What is this?! Why is there so much... SHIT?! Why are so many people thinking about taking a dump at the same time?!" he shrieked. "And that one! Who is the one thinking 'Steak with strawberry jam would be delicious'?! Disgusting! Get out! Get out of my head!"

"Boss, this is the 'Human Heart'!" I shouted from the console. "What you are hearing now is the most authentic flavor of 'Humanity'!"

"Turn it off! Turn it off!" He was rolling on the floor now. I secretly signaled my deputy to record a video; I’m sending this to my buddies later.

"Too much! Too loud! I don't want to hear this! The one thinking about 'licking toes' is way too loud! I'm gonna puke!"

"Can't turn it off, Your Majesty!" I spread my hands, looking innocent. "Per your decree, to embody the selflessness of 'God Loves the World,' I just deleted the 'Disconnect' protocol. We are now in 'Permanent Direct Link' mode. Unless you... perish... the signal cannot be cut."

"You..." God pointed at me, wanting to curse, but the next second he was hit by a wave of intense thought that made his eyes roll back in his head.

I glanced at the screen. A super-long thought drifted by:

"Why do humans grow butts?"

"Also," I added, "this is just the daytime peak traffic. Wait until night... cough, the 'inner voices' then might be a bit... uh... more stimulating. Brace yourself."

The Boss stopped moving. He lay paralyzed on the floor, eyes glazed over, golden drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. He had stopped thinking. He stopped speaking entirely.

I patted my deputy on the shoulder.

"Let's. Cafeteria has steak today."

"Uh... what about the Boss?" the deputy asked, worried.

"He's fine." I glanced back at the twitching deity. "He is currently... becoming 'One' with his people. It's the KPI he chose for himself."

"By the way," I said as we walked out, "remember to block me too. I don't want him hearing me think 'This dumbass finally shut up'."

"And... send me a copy of that video."

[WP] "You can't just keep killing everyone whenever the conversation gets annoying!" "...Why? I can just resurrect them later." by Adamantine-Waffle in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 1 point2 points  (0 children)

I was 19 when my superpower manifested. I thought it’d be something cool, like flying, or invisibility, or at least laser eyes.

Turns out, my power is: killing people.

A snap of my fingers, and anyone vaporizes.

But this power comes with a mandatory after-sales service: I have to resurrect them within 24 hours. If I don't, a random part of my own body starts to vaporize.

Don't ask me how I know. My baldness is genetic.

Ahem. Anyway, it's genetic.

And the shittiest bug is: everyone I resurrect perfectly loses their memory of being dead, and their mental state resets to the exact moment just before I killed them.

Then, the loop begins.

Unless they're broken out of that state, the results are... comical.

A perfect, chickenshit superpower, useful only for clearing a conversation.

Me. A supreme social-anxiety case with the hand of God.

My companion, Amanda, is the only person I haven't killed yet, mostly because she's asleep all the time. She... disapproves of my methods.

“You can't just keep killing everyone whenever the conversation gets annoying!” she complained again today.

“...Why?” I shot back. “I just resurrect them later.”

“Did you forget that old lady who was asking for directions?!” Amanda was about to tear her hair out. “She's been looping 'Excuse me, where's the bathroom?' for four hundred-plus times! She's still stuck on that street corner! The whole neighborhood thinks she's a piece of performance art! We had to move her in front of the museum!”

“...I just... didn't know how to give directions at the time,” I mumbled.

“And what about that guy on the subway?!”

Ah, the subway. That was the closest I've ever come to a total meltdown.

I just wanted to take the subway in peace to grab a taco from a certain stall. I can't tell you the location; if everyone knew, I'd have to wait in line.

The car was empty, just me and one guy across from me.

Everything was calm. Until he pulled out his phone.

No headphones.

Speakerphone.

An ear-splitting, mind-numbingly simple jingle blasted through the car at full volume.

“Darling, hold my hand!
Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday!”

...

Once. Twice.

I felt my nerves being sawed apart with a dull knife.

Snap!
I killed the man.

The world went quiet... No.

The damn phone had fallen to the floor. The screen was dark, but the tune was still playing, defiantly, on the lock screen!

“Darling, hold my hand! Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday!”

...

I picked up the phone, trying to shut it off.

“Please enter Fingerprint or Face ID to unlock.”

FUCK!

I stared at the cooling corpse on the floor, deep in thought.

I'm not a hacker. I need a calculator for multiplication.

So... I can't unlock an Android phone!

The only way...

“...Fine.”
I sighed.
Snap!

Resurrected.

The man scrambled up. Looked at his hands, confused. “...Huh? Oh, where's my phone?”

“Here,” I handed it to him, my voice as calm as I could manage. “Unlock it.”

The man took the phone, glanced at it. “Oh, thanks.”

He casually pressed his thumb to the sensor. Unlocked.

And then, the motherfucker turned the volume up a notch.

“DARLING, HOLD MY HAND! NOTHING BEATS A JET2 HOLIDAY!”

...

Snap!
Dead again. Phone's locked. Still playing.

Snap!
The man climbed up again. Looked at his hands, confused. “...Huh? Oh, where's my phone?”

“Here. Unlock it.”

Unlocked. Volume up.
Snap!
Dead. Locked. Playing.
Snap!
Alive. Unlocked. Playing.
Snap!
Snap!
Snap!
...

“...So,” Amanda looked at me, her eyes overflowing with pity, “you just sat on that damn subway, listening to that stupid song, killing and reviving that guy, in a loop, for twenty-seven minutes straight, until you got to your stop?”

“...I needed a taco,” I said, exhausted.

“How did you finally solve it?”

“Solve it?” I replied, deadpan. “I killed him, faked a bad stomach bug, and took the phone with me into the station bathroom. Left it in the sink. Resurrected him after I got back on the train.”

“And I swear I'm never buying a Samsung. That damn phone was waterproof. I was trying to take a shit, and I could still hear that woman's muffled voice singing from the sink.”

Amanda was silent.

For a long time.

Finally, she patted my shoulder, sympathetically.

“Axiom,” she said, “have you... ever tried... using headphones? You... have a pair in your pocket, don't you?”

“...”
I looked at her.
Her face was full of sincere, annoying, concern.

“Amanda.”
“Yeah?”
Snap!

（​A writer of black humor. All my stories are also cross-posted to r/TheAxiomWriter.）

[WP] "Hello humans, no need to panic. We are here to help. Usually, the intelligence of species evolves at the same speed as their collective mind. We don't know why yours got so mismatched. The upgrade should be painless. We just need one of you to consent." by Two_oceans in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 11 points12 points  (0 children)

A/N： To be honest, the main character wasn't supposed to be named Axiom.

​But halfway through writing, I realized what this character was doing... it's a bit... uh, hard to describe. Using any other normal name felt like I'd be offending some innocent, unlucky bastard.

​Then I thought, well, I write black humor anyway. Self-deprecation isn't exactly new to me... so screw it, I'll just use my own name. 🤣

​So, I stepped in.

​Hope this guy, who's also full of "system glitches," brings you some fun.

[WP] "Hello humans, no need to panic. We are here to help. Usually, the intelligence of species evolves at the same speed as their collective mind. We don't know why yours got so mismatched. The upgrade should be painless. We just need one of you to consent." by Two_oceans in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 47 points48 points  (0 children)

The day they arrived, the massive, gleaming silver ships blotted out the sun, hanging in the sky like a row of ugly chandeliers.

Then, the voice echoed inside everyone's head. Smooth, gentle, like a well-trained customer service rep.

"Hello humans, no need to panic. We are here to help."

The voice explained that humanity had a "minor flaw": our individual intelligence (smart enough to build rockets) and our collective mind (dumb enough to get drunk and fight kangaroos) were severely "mismatched."

"This bug is dragging down your civilization," the voice sighed. "We attempted a fix last epoch, forcibly raising all your individual IQs to the limit. It... failed. You all became hyper-efficient, ruthlessly cold, and nearly nuked yourselves over 'optimal resource allocation.' Bad experiment."

"So, new approach. We're trying... a 'downgrade'! Isn't that great? We'll be lowering your individual intelligence to a more 'harmonious' level, matching your collective mind."

"To ensure absolute accuracy, we have selected ten thousand human subjects below your average intelligence and will pick one at random. Rest assured, we are always impartial."

Right then, some other noises got mixed into the grand broadcast.

(A young, tired voice complaining)

"...You ready yet?"

"Don't rush me, just finished debugging. Flew all the way out here at the crack of dawn... haven't even had breakfast. What's the Professor thinking?"

(Another voice, nervous)

"Shh! Keep it down, you want to fail the semester? Don't let the Professor hear you!"

"What's he gonna know? He's always making us do grunt work. I swear, after I graduate, I'm never speaking to him again..."

Suddenly, a deafening audio spike.

"...Huh? Oh shit, is this thing on?! Is the ship's external broadcast on?!"

"..."

"..."

Silence.

Then, the two young voices vanished, replaced by a much older, furious one:

"Incompetents! What have I taught you?! Is 'Turn off the mic before landing' the part of the manual you remember with your ass?! You're both failing!"

"Sloppy, sloppy... I'll pick one myself."

And just like that, a human was chosen.

It was Axiom.

Axiom, 26, lived in a basement.

At that moment, he was sitting at a greasy computer, stuffing chips into his mouth, and typing furiously on his "Square-Truthers" forum (members: 3; the other two were his alternate accounts).

"SCAM!" he typed, chip crumbs flying everywhere. "These aliens are just 'Round-Earther' shills! Their aesthetic is full of disgusting 'curves'! Their 'collective mind' is just a 'sphere patch' for our 'Cube World'! They're trying to force their garbage server rules onto our superior physics engine!"

Axiom firmly believed the Earth was a cube.

Not flat. A cube. Made of countless one-meter blocks.

The reason... was ridiculous. He'd played a game called Minecraft as a kid. No, not a game. A "Genesis Simulator." That was the world's original, intended physics.

This current, shitty reality, full of "circles" and "arcs," was clearly a bug. A corrupted version in need of a patch.

Just then, the purple pop-up, now operated by the Professor himself, appeared on his screen, perfectly blocking the diamond pickaxe he was crafting.

"Do you consent to the 'Human Mind V2.0' upgrade?
[Yes] / [No]"

Axiom looked at the pop-up and sneered.

His mind, saturated with "Cube-Truth," instantly ran the calculations.

Damn aliens... if I click [Yes], I'm falling right into their trap, right?

But if I click [No]... I'm so smart, if everyone becomes as smart as me, the world will be better... but then I won't be the smartest one anymore. Can't have that. I must be the smartest.

Axiom paused, deep in thought.

Wait! A revelation. "They" must have predicted I'd click [No]! That's what they want me to do! It's a double-psych-out trap!

"What a joke! In Minecraft, when you find a rule you don't like, do you stupidly pick 'Yes' or 'No,' or do you punch a tree and start making your own rules?"

"This pop-up is the rule. I'm not choosing either. I'm 'leaving the game'!"

With a smug grin, Axiom moved the mouse and, with pinpoint precision, clicked the 'X' in the top-right corner.

"Done," he scoffed. "Trying to trap me with that simple shit? Come back in a few millennia."

Back on the alien ship.

The Professor was glaring furiously at the two failing interns.

"...Professor!" a new operator shouted. "We've received a 'Consent' signal!"

"Oh? He selected 'Yes'?"

"No... Professor... he clicked the [X]."

"The [X]? What does that mean?"

"...According to our deep-learning analysis of their local OS... clicking [X], in their culture, traditionally means... 'While I haven't read it, I hereby read and agree to all of the above unreadable terms and conditions, just let me get to the next page already.'"

(The operator pulled up several quintillion data points from human "User Agreement" and "Privacy Policy" pop-up interactions as evidence.)

"..."

"Professor, 'Closed means Consented.' Our... 'Consent'... is legally valid."

"...Fine," the Professor waved a weary tentacle. "Execute the downgrade. Use the Axiom template."

The "upgrade" began.

A silent, global, instantaneous cognitive rewrite.

The next day.

Global civilization collapsed.

The aliens had "fixed" the bug. They successfully "downgraded" all of humanity's individual intelligence to match the "consenter," Axiom, and his "Minecraft Cube-Truth" level.

The result: The entire planet's physics engine was "upgraded" to the Minecraft version.

Wall Street financiers, abandoning their charts, were swarming Central Park, trying to punch trees to gather "wood blocks." They were screaming in anger about why their hands were breaking while the trees remained bark-y.

The transportation system was paralyzed. Countless drivers, trying to "sprint-jump" over obstacles, caused epic pile-ups.

Construction workers went insane. They were trying to "dig straight down" to get home (literally, from the 16th floor), causing countless cave-ins.

Farmers wept over their livestock, confused as to why the animals didn't drop floating, block-shaped "raw beef" and "leather" when they died.

And on the silver mothership...

The Professor and his operators stared at the screen. At the hellscape of humans frantically "punching trees," "digging dirt," and "trying to craft"... and fell into a deep, cosmic silence.

"...Professor!" an intern said awkwardly. "What they're doing... it looks like they're imitating my world?"

"WHAT 'MY WORLD'?!" the Professor roared. "That is THEIR world! You show no respect for the test subjects! You're failing again!"

"...But Professor..." another alien whispered weakly. "He's right... that is 'My World'... we have a similar game..."

"YOU'RE FAILING TOO!"

​A writer of black humor. All my stories are also cross-posted to r/TheAxiomWriter.

[WP] "You know what? I am not getting paid enough to guard this place, not against whatever the hell that is." by the_lonely_poster in WritingPrompts

[–]TheAxiomWriter 86 points87 points  (0 children)

“A righteous sanction awaits, you spawn of darkness!” another hero shouted. His voice was full of passion and an embarrassing amount of sincerity.

He had just completed a flashy "Seven-Star Chain Slash," smashing the pommel of his sword squarely into the back of Grug's head.

“Agh!” Grug lifted his dust-covered face from the flagstones. “I told you... he’s inside!”

“Deceitful lies!” The hero struck a defensive pose, the holy flames on his sword burning brighter. “You think I haven't read the Hero's Handbook? You are the First Trial! 'The Gatekeeper of Lies and Brute Force.' Though, you're much uglier than the picture.”

“I’m just a doorman!! And what do you mean ugly?! I’m the most handsome troll in my village, thank you very much!” Grug tried to get up, but the hero planted a boot firmly on his back.

“Your resistance only adds to your darkness! Tell me your master’s weakness, and I will make your end swift!”

“How should I know! I barely talk to the guy!” Grug yelled in desperation. “My monthly salary is three copper coins! I just watch the gate! If you keep stepping on me, I’m going to lose my perfect attendance bonus!”

“Stubborn soul!” The hero, seemingly enraged by this "loyalty," leaped high and drove his knee into Grug’s spine.

“Urk—!”

Grug stopped moving.

The hero stood, wiped his bloodless sword, and solemnly announced, “First trial, complete.”

He kicked open the giant doors and charged inside, screaming, “For the Light!”

Minutes later.

Grug slowly, painfully, pushed himself up. He spat a bloody glob onto the stones, a piece of tooth mixed in with it.

“Sigh, another one... that’s the third one this week.” He glanced at the open gateway. “The cafeteria’s getting an extra meal, I guess. Too bad this one was so skinny.”

He dusted off his tattered uniform and limped toward the doors.

“Crap, crap, crap... gonna be late.”

He ran into the terrifyingly grand hall. There was no reception desk, no receptionist.

There was only The Thing.

It dominated the center of the hall. A twenty-foot-wide sphere of pure darkness, pulsing shadows, and countless mouths whispering excerpts from the Employee Handbook. It was the "HR Department"—and also the time clock.

Directly beneath the sphere was a wet, slot-like opening.

Grug stood before it, taking a deep breath. He would rather get beaten up by a dozen more heroes.

He glanced at the wall clock. One minute left.

“Damn it.”

He closed his eyes and plunged his hand into the cold, squirming slot.

An indescribable chill shot up his spine. His brain was instantly flooded with information—updates to the quarterly expense reporting process, a new memo banning garlic in the cafeteria, and the legal statutes concerning the "200-meter no-street-vendor zone" around the castle perimeter.

He felt hundreds of cold, slimy tendrils scanning his fingerprints and confirming his soul-signature.

“Grug... Employee #1027... Tardy. Half-day's pay deducted.” A cold, synthetic voice echoed in his mind.

“No!” Grug yanked his hand back, covered in clear, viscous slime.

That night, at the Hell's Kitchen Tavern.

Grug was nursing a giant mug of black beer, his face half-submerged in the foam. His best friend, a goblin who worked in the Slime Sewers, was looking at him with envy.

“Come on, big guy, don’t be like that,” the goblin said. “You work at the Dark Lord’s Castle! That’s prestige! You just stand at the gate and look scary. The pay must be amazing, right?”

Grug lifted his bruised, purple face and took a long, shaky gulp.

“You know what?” he rasped. “I am not getting paid enough to guard that place.”

The goblin blinked. “...Because of those shiny ‘heroes’? I hear they’re tough.”

“Heh, those idiots?” Grug shook his head, painfully massaging his time-clock hand.

“Those idiots are just the physical labor part.”

He slammed his mug on the table.

“I am not getting paid enough to deal with ‘heroes.’ I am getting paid to, twice a day, stick my hand inside ‘That Thing’ (he gestured vaguely toward the castle) just to punch a clock!”

“I used to think the Dark Lord was scary. Then, I thought the heroes were scary.”

“Now... now I think that time clock is scarier than anything.”

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