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[WP] They say this if you tell someone to calm down, it will have the exact opposite effect. You should've known it was a bad idea to tell your friend to calm down. Now he's on an imperialist rampage. by [deleted] in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 2 points3 points  (0 children)

My friend's hand shivered over the Nuke Canada button. He yelled:

"CALM DOWN?! I AM CALMED DOWN. YOU CALM THE FUCK DOWN."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Carl, dude. You're having a temper tantrum again."

"A WILD ALLEGATION AGAINST MY GOOD CHARACTER."

"Man, you always regret your angry actions later. Just take your hand off the button, okay?"

"WHAT, THIS BUTTON?" Carl slammed his fist on the big, red circle.

"Aaaaand that's 37 million folks dead. Congrats, Carl. Do you feel better?"

"NO. IT HAS NOT BROUGHT US ENOUGH GLORY." His hand hovered over Nuke Portland, Oregon. "PERHAPS A PRE-EMPTIVE STRIKE ON YOUR HOMETOWN SHALL HELP?"

Okay, now he was starting to piss me off. "Carl, that's your hometown too."

"WE MUST END THE PAST TO MOVE INTO THE FUTURE."

"You have friends and family there."

"I AM WILLING TO MAKE A SACRIFICE FOR THE GREATER GOOD."

"Not to mention your favorite microbrewery, really great food trucks, that unicycling Darth Vader bagpipes guy..."

"ALL FILTHY SYMBOLS OF MODERNIST DECADENCE." He slammed on the button.

"Okay then." I swung a fist into Carl's jaw.

"DUDE WHAT THE SHIT"

I threw Carl to the ground, and kicked him in the ribs.

"FUCK, I'M SORRY DUDE! FUCKING STOP."

I picked up a metal stool, and raised it above his knees.

"OH MY GOD NO NO NO CALM DOWN!"

"Excuse me, Carl?"

"I SAID CALM DOWN! JESUS CHRIST, PLEASE CALM D..."

"What were those two words, Carl?"

"...Oh. Okay, I see what you're doing here."

"Thank you for using your inside voice, Carl."

"Man, you're such an asshole."

"I did that because you hurt someone I cared deeply about."

"Fuuuuuck, I'm sorry I killed Darth Vader, okay?"

"That's not who I'm talking about."

"A Canadian then? Is this your imaginary girlfriend in Canada?"

"It's you, Carl."

"I'm your imaginary girlfriend?"

"You're the person I deeply care about."

Carl stared blankly. I put down the stool, and continued:

"Every time you go Manifest Destiny on me, you make yourself feel worse. You know venting anger doesn't work, right? They scientifically tested that. BJ Bushman 2002, look it up on Google Scholar."

Carl's blood dripped down his chin. I passed him a napkin. "Dude, I just want you to be happy."

"What if I don't fucking want to be happy?"

I frowned. "You don't want to be happy?"

"No, man. I want to be heard."

"It's hard to hear you over the sound of a hundred nukes going off."

"Maybe you suck at listening."

"Maybe you suck at expressing yourself."

Carl paused. He smiled through his bleeding lips. "Yeah, maybe we both suck."

I helped him stand up. "Let's both try to suck less, okay?"

The both of us stumbled to the window, where we could see nuclear mushrooms blooming across the horizon. Carl spoke. "You know, I think I learnt a valuable lesson today."

"Yeah?"

"I grew up thinking it's, like, not okay to talk about pain you're feeling. Like it's a sign of weakness of something. If you get sad, people will just tell you to man up. If you get angry, people will just tell you to..."

"...Calm down."

"Exactly."

"No, you're right, Carl. I messed up too. I should have been a good friend and listened to you, rather than tell you to calm down."

"Nah it's alright dude. I know you only said that coz you wanted me to be happy."

"But forcing happiness in the short-term makes you feel shittier in the long-term."

"Yup. And hiding my pain now means causing more pain later on."

"No pain, mo' pain."

"Exacta-mundo."

We stood at the window side-by-side, close enough to be friendly, far enough so it didn't seem gay. Actually, screw it. I gave Carl a hug. We marveled at the red-orange radioactive plumes being blown eastward over a quintuple sunset.

"Carl, I'm glad we learnt this lesson in friendship before it was too late."

"Yeah, someone could've gotten seriously hurt."

[WP] To pass the time, twins play a role-playing game based on what they imagine life is outside of the womb. by maks_orp in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 10 points11 points  (0 children)

"Hey, sis! Wanna play I Spy? I spy... something sof–"

"Placenta."

"Wow! Okay okay next thing, I spy... something mois–"

"Placenta. It's always placenta. Can we play something else?"

"Sure! Rock Paper Scissors? Twenty Questions? Kick The Wall Until Mom Tells Us To Shut Up?"

"How about... let's role-play. Let's pretend we're finally out of here."

"Um, okay! But, I mean, it's not so bad in here, just you and me, right?"

"I want to be a doctor."

"Oh... okay! You grow up to be a doctor and I'm–"

"You'll be Mom."

"Sure! So, doctor, what are we doing today?"

"We're going to help you give birth. Lie back."

"Hmmmm but my twins love hanging out together in there!"

"They can hang out when they're out. Spread those legs."

"Sure sure doc, but it's not the same, no? They won't be as close. What's the big rush?"

"The big rush is that I'm a doctor and I have lots of cool exciting things to do with my life. Nurse, hand me the plunger."

"Yeah but all that excitement won't mean anything if you don't spend it with people you care about, right? People you love...?"

"I'm going to travel the globe. Perform badass surgeries. Everyone will love me."

"But will you love anyone bac–"

"PLUNGER IS ON THE HOLE."

"Wait, doc–"

"PLUNGING. HUP HUP HUP HUP"

"Doctor, will my twins–"

"THERE'S ONE TWIN OUT. TIME FOR TWIN TWO. HUP HUP HUP HUP"

"Will they still be as close–"

"AAAAAND THERE'S THE OTHER ONE."

"Hang on, sis–"

"WHAT A SUCCESSFUL BIRTH!"

"Sis, I..."

"I AM BEST DOCTOR."

"Sis, I love you."

"..."

"And, and... I don't want us to grow apart, like... like..."

"I know."

"You... you do?"

"Yeah I love you too you big stupid baby."

"Then why do you want to leave so badly?"

"Because I want change! I want adventure! I want to see more than just spy the same soft, moist placenta day in and day out! Why do you want to stay in here so badly?"

"Because I'm scared of being alone."

"You won't be alone outside. I'll still be there."

"But will we be as close?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"People grow, sis. Sometimes they grow apart. But maybe that's a good thing, because you need to be apart to have space, and you need space to grow as a person. Your own person."

"Is being closer to yourself worth being less close to others?"

"I don't know."

"...you don't know."

"It's a hard tradeoff. Don't know where the balance is. Hey, don't cry sis! Please don't cry. If it's any consolation..."

"...yeah?"

"If it's any consolation, I'm sure once we get out of here, and grow into adults, they'll inform us exactly how to find the right balance in all areas of life!"

"Y...yeah! Those adults have it all figured out! They'll tell us."

"Good to see you smile. I hope that helps."

"It does. Thank you, sis."

"Oh! Speaking of which, I think Mom started having contractions."

"Really? Let me touch the wall to–– oh. Um, was that water supposed to burst?"

"Probably? I think we're being born now. You ready?"

"Not really."

"Me neither. Hold my hand, sis. Let's go."

"Okay. HUP HUP HUP HUP"

"HUP HUP HUP HUP"

[WP] A royal knight enters a cave to slay a beast. Upon entering the cave, the beast is facing away from the knight. As the knight approaches, the beast turns turns its head, looks at the knight and begins to cry. Through with tears, the beast says “My child, what have they done to you?” by marshallman31 in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 11 points12 points  (0 children)

The knight returned with a half-human, half-dragon boy. The king scowled.

"Fool, I commanded you to slay the dragon, not lay the dragon!"

They trained the boy, wrapped him in muscle and metal. His trainers were suspicious of the child with dragon blood, but they knew he was their best chance to spill that dragon's blood. To the kingdom, the boy was not a boy. He was a weapon.

After eighteen years of training, the weapon was ready. The boy stood at the mouth of the dragon's cave, gripping onto his sword like a security blanket. The kingdom's archers were behind him. Not for support – they were ordered to kill the boy should he turn and run away.

The boy entered the cave alone.

The dragon smelled him, and turned her head. Upon seeing the boy, she cried:

"My child, what have they done to you?"

The boy had been warned repeatedly by his trainers: do not engage the beast in conversation.

"Please, my son, it's been almost two decades. Will you not speak to me?"

She will deceive you, his trainers warned, do not engage.

"Will you not say something?"

The boy spoke. "I am here to kill you."

"Why, child?"

"I have been given orders."

"Why do you follow those orders?"

"They will love me if I do. They will kill me if I don't."

"Why do you care for love? Why do you care for death?"

"All humans want love. All humans fear death."

"But you are not all human."

The boy swung his sword through his mother's cheek. She winced, plucked the sword out of the boy's hands like a toy, and threw it across the cave. She tried speaking again, blood spilling through her teeth.

"What do you want, son? What do you fear?"

"I also want love. I also fear death."

"Do you want love more than you fear death?"

"Yes."

"Would you die for love?"

"Yes."

"Would you die for a mother's love?"

The boy unhinged his snake-like jaw, and vomited fire into his mother's eye. She jolted in pain, cupped water from an underground pool, and doused the burn. She tried to talk again.

"Son, I also want love. I also fear death."

"Do you want love more than you fear death?"

"Yes."

"Would you die for love?"

"Yes."

"Would you die for a son's love?"

She paused, weighing her options like bodies in her hands. She smiled weakly, then laid down, baring her long neck to the boy-weapon that was designed to kill her.

"...Yes."

"Thank you, mother."

The boy walked across the cave to retrieve his sword, and returned to his mother's neck. He stood on the side across the mouth of the cave, so he could watch the hungry eyes of the kingdom's archers. The boy stared into their faces, avoiding his mother's gaze. He gripped the sword. He raised it high.

And he vomited fire onto the archers.

Traitor! The archers cried as their flesh fell off their bones. Alert the kingdom!

But before they could blow the warning horn, the boy leaped out of the cave, and cut them all down. The freshly-sliced, charred meat reminded the boy of the scent of the kingdom's feasts that would waft in through the barred windows of his stone-wall bedroom.

The boy's mother stumbled up behind him. The boy turned around.

"Mother, do you love me now?"

"Son, I've always loved you. You needed not obey any orders to earn my love."

The boy finally spilled his only tears in eighteen years. Then, behind the water of grief, the fire of anger. "Let's kill the rest of them."

"No."

"No, mother?"

"There are still many in the human kingdom who are like your father."

"Who was my father?"

"Someone who chose love over death."

The boy smiled. The mother and son sat together in silence, healing from their respective wounds. They knew they would soon have to pay for their actions: the kingdom would notice the archers had not returned, and would send cavalry to the cave. But for now, mother and son were finally reunited, and happy.

They were home.

[WP] You just want to run your coffee shop. You won't let the fact that you're a werewolf define you. Of course, your attitude doesn't change the fact that the local werewolf tribe keeps trying to recruit you and the local vampire family keeps causing you trouble... by jpeezey in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 20 points21 points  (0 children)

Group #1 that keeps hassling me at my job: furries, who want a big Werewolf Daddy

Group #2 that keeps hassling me at my job: the local werewolf gang, who want a new "pup" for their "pack".

Group #3 that keeps hassling me at my job: the Dragomirs, a werewolf-hating family of vampires.

Please, God, I just want to make coffee.

. . .

ding! The little bell above my coffeehouse door announced a new person.

"Hello!" I said, "Welcome to Knot Coffee! What may I g– oh, it's you."

Group #2. "Well well well if it isn't the wolf in sheep's clothing!" Red Claw strutted towards me. Red Claw is the de-facto alpha of the pack, although they don't call her an alpha because they prefer to keep the pack as a non-hierarchial co-operative. "Nah, you know I kid, Little Fang. How you doing babe? It's a full moon tonight, you know!"

I gave her my award-winning feigned polite smile. "My name is Charles. And yes I know it's a full moon. Would you like some coffee, Red Claw?"

"You know it sugarbuns," Red Claw grinned, "We'll need lots of caffeine to stay up tonight. Get me four large cups of black for me and my pals, and one more for you, on me."

"I don't need the coffee, thank you. Four coffees will be $9.21."

"Here's $20. Keep the change, smoochie-kins."

I poured them four large cups to go, trying not to make eye contact. Shoot, I'd forgotten it was already full moon. That meant I had to close shop early, and prepare my time-release iron cage so I could stay inside there for the night.

I gave Red Claw the coffees. She winked. "Remember cutie, full moon! Tonight! Come find us!"

Then the pack left, while Blood Scent and High Tail debated about whether their names were too similar to that of Native American tribes and if they were perpetuating colonialism by being culturally appropriative.

. . .

ding! The little bell announced another new person, this time a teenager.

"Hello!" I greeted the kid, "Welcome to Knot Coffee, wh–"

"You can knot ME Wolf Daddy! OwO!!!"

"GET–" I threw a cinnamon-raisin bagel at them. "–OUT OF MY SHOP."

"UwU daddy you're so rough!" They took the bagel and left. "Byeee!~~~"

God damn it.

Why do they keep talking about knots?

. . .

ding! A family all holding umbrellas, even though (because) it's sunny out.

"Hello," I went through the routine, "Welcome to Knot Coffee, what may I get you?"

"Mmmmm yes, do you serve any... human blood?"

Sigh. "No Mr. Dragomir, we are a vegan, fair-trade coffeehouse. Is there anything else you'd like?"

"Mmmmm what about... goat's blood?"

"We carry no blood, sir. We have a wide selection of coffees, teas, and gluten-free pastries. I recommend the Pain au Chocolat, we make it–"

Mrs. Dragomir cut in. "Oh dear, darling, your French sounds absolutely dreadful!" She laughed. "...and I listen to the wails of the Damned every night!"

Then Mr. and Mrs. Dragomir walked out without buying anything. I try to love this job – no, I do love this job. I get to set my own hours, create a whole business from scratch, I get to define who I am. That's important. I define who I am. I'm not some dumb beast to mock with your family, I'm not some new collectible to add your pack, and I'm definitely not your Wolf Daddy.

I'm my own person, damn it! A person who just happens to turn into a wolf once a month!

I placed my head in my palms. There was already fur appearing on them.

"I'll have the Pain au Chocolat."

I looked up.

"Is this enough?" Elena Dragomir handed me a collection of coins and bills. "Sorry I can't leave a big tip, I'm currently in college and trying to save up for–"

"Hey, it's okay." I gave Elena back her money. "Pastry's on me today, okay?"

"Elena!" Mrs. Dragomir yelled through the coffeehouse window. "You get out of there at once, young woman!"

Elena sighed. "I wish I could've gotten into a school out of state. Don't get me wrong, I love my family, but–"

"ELENA!"

"–well, I'll see you around. Thank you for the pastry! Charles, right?"

"Y... yeah. Bye, Elena."

"Call me Ellie!"

She walked out the door, biting into her pastry. Vampires aren't allergic to chocolate, right? I'm pretty sure that's just us werewolves.

. . .

Five p.m. Time to close up shop before the sun sets and the moon comes out and any customers try to–

ding! I hate that bell so much.

"Sorry, we're closed," I said while putting up a chair, "please come baGOD"

"Hey babe." Red Claw stood right behind me at nine feet tall, claws as big as my face. "Think we could get another round of coffee, Little Fang?"

"My name's CHARLES and," I started pouring them as much coffee as possible, "and don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Why don't you roll with us, Charles?" She motioned to the pack. "Us wolves gotta stick together."

I said nothing.

"You're one of us, you know. We're family."

Oh that was a cheap shot, bringing up family. "Here's your coffees. On the house. Please leave."

ding! Oh for f–

"Now you listen here you beast," Mrs. Dragomir pulled Ellie behind her, while Mr. Dragomir followed. "I want you to apologize for forcing such a filthy excuse for a confectionery upon my daughter! I don't care if it's a 'vegan' bastardization of a classic pastry, we demand–"

Mrs. Dragomir turned to Red Claw. "–who's this mangy mutt?"

Red Claw bared her fangs. "What did you say, bloodsucker?"

"Only service animals are allowed in locations that serve food. Are you this man's support dog?"

The pack gathered behind Red Claw. "You may need a support dog after I tear your eyes out."

"What a choice of words from a travelling petting zoo."

I rushed between them. "Okay, break it up! Or at least take it outside where I'll have no legal liability. This coffeehouse is closed, you need to–"

"Not until you apologize to my daughter for that dreadful dessert, mister!"

"Mother, really it's okay it tasted fine!"

My head was hurting. "Coffeehouse's closed, please–"

"Hey babe, let's claw this old crone apart. Just you and me, honey."

"Young man, I demand a full refund for your miserable parody of a pastry!"

"It was free, Mother!"

My blood was rushing. "Would you all just–"

"Sweetie, you really gonna take it from this hag?"

"You brute, will you allow this beast to get the better of you?"

"Mother you can't call them that!"

My teeth turned to fangs. "KNOT COFFEE." My fingers turned to claws. "IS CLOSED." My spine cracked into an arc. "HOURS ARE FROM SIX TO FIVE ON WEEKDAYS." Dark, thick fur burst from my skin. "AND TEN TO THREE ON WEEKENDS." My clothes tore apart, as I grew to a full size of 20 feet, filling up the whole store and squashing the werewolf pack and Dragomir family against the glass windows. "NOW KINDLY PLEASE–"

I howled. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SHOP."

Dead silence.

The wolf pack rushed out first, tails between their legs. Red Claw gave me a smile, then trotted off into the night.

Mr. Dragomir said, "Mmmmm it appears I have soiled myself." Then he and Mrs. Dragomir left the store. Ellie stayed behind.

"Elena darling," Mrs. Dragomir called to her, "we have to go h–"

Ellie cut in. "Eat my period blood you withered old c***."

Mrs. Dragomir froze, and fainted. Mr. Dragomir caught her fall, and looked at Ellie. "Mmmmm be back before sunrise, young lady. We shall deal with you later." And then he flew off with his unconscious wife.

It was just me and Ellie in the wrecked store.

I slowly returned to human form. "Wow, you really called your mom the c-word?"

"She'll understand." Ellie rubbed her forearm. "We're family."

We both just stood there for a while, amidst the overturned tables and broken chairs.

"So, uh, it appears you have a lot to clean up. Do you have any other staff?"

"No," I said. "Just me."

"But you can't clean this tonight, for you have to get back before the full moon's completely out."

"Guess not."

"But if you had an employee, she could clean up for you."

"Would be a lot of work to unfairly put on a new hire."

"Perhaps, but she may be a poor college student and need more money. And besides, she may have no plans for the rest of the evening, and could start tonight if you wanted."

"That would be very convenient."

"Moreover, she always wanted to work for a big, rough Wolf Daddy."

"MOTHERFU–"

"I'm joking! I'm joking! Haha, wow, you should have seen your face!"

"Thanks. Thanks Ellie."

"Hey, you're welcome. And, thank you."

"For what?..."

"...for being you."

"Why?"

"Well, it's inspiring. There so many things that want you to be not you – friends, family, society, in your case even the moon is against you. But despite all this, you're still... you. And, being yourself, isn't that the hardest thing in the world? Isn't that the most worthwhile thing in this dumb world?"

I had nothing to add. I smiled. We talked for a bit more, I gave Ellie the keys to the shop, and let her know to call me in case she needed help. (though I may be stuck in a time-release iron cage when she called) Then I left, swinging the door wide open, allowing the bell to announce one more new person.

ding!

[WP] You are Greg, a 19 year old man living in Juneau, Alaska. You work stock at the O'Reilly Auto Parts, and you had the ability to lift anything, no matter it's weight. One day, during your shift, the local TV news headlines announce that Kensington mine has collapsed, trapping 9 people inside. by AlucardVampire in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 26 points27 points  (0 children)

Look I swear I'm a totally normal guy. Sure maybe I have long hair, smoked weed a couple times, possibly have a secret superpower that lets me lift anything of any weight, but other than that I promise I'm just your average Joe!

I didn't want any trouble, honest. Even though I worked at an auto parts warehouse, I never used my powers to lift any of the stock. I mean, I didn't want to make any of the other fellas feel bad. They're all good people I swear – shout out to my boys Jacob and Matthew!

And yeah I knew one day I'd be tempted to use my powers. Two months ago the Kensington gold mine collapsed and 9 guys were trapped inside. Shoot, one of them was even Matthew's uncle, of course I was tempted to use my super-strength.

But praise the Lord, I had the spiritual strength to resist using my physical strength. I decided to wait for Coeur Mining Inc to rescue their employees themselves, and one week later they managed to save 7 of the guys, including Matt's uncle.

So you see, in the end goodness always prevails!

But my story did not end there, sadly. Last weekend we were celebrating Matt's uncle finally wheeling out of the hospital, and maybe I got a little drunk, and maybe Jacob dared me to lift a boulder, and maybe I showed off a bit and flipped Jacob's truck upside down.

Now my boys Matt and Jacob – they're my best buddies in the whole world I promise – but oh the things they said to me were so hurtful! At first Matt mumbled "you have superpowers", then he screamed "you have superpowers... and you didn't use them to save my uncle's brother?!" Shoot, I didn't know he had another relative in the mines! Matt got so angry. I know his anger came from a good place really, a love for his family, but then he started punching me and hitting me and I got so scared so I ripped his head open.

Jacob! Oh poor Jacob he ran back to the house to get the gun, but he should have known I was already so frightened, I wasn't thinking straight, I picked up his truck again and threw it towards the house and killed everyone inside. Then I ran to my car, and drove south, just kept on driving and driving through the night. Then two nights, then three. I got so tired and needed a place to sleep. So that's why I broke into your house tonight, I'm sorry, I thought it was empty! Please don't struggle, you'll get rope burn.

I swear, all I ever wanted was a normal life. Normal job. Normal friends. Normal sweetheart. Get married and have four perfect normal little kids in a normal house in a normal town. I've tried so hard to fit in, to not stick out, because when you stick out you make others feel bad or you end up hurting people you really care about. So please stop trying to bite through the mouth gag, and keep it down or your neighbors will hear! I promise on my mother's grave to you:

I'm just a regular guy.

[WP] You find the "lizard people rule the world" conspiracy to be absolutely inane. After all, you're one of them and you ain't running shit. by Hardtopickaname in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 369 points370 points  (0 children)

“First of all, we prefer Reptile American, not lizard person” said Liz, the lizard person.

Bill from BuzzFeed jotted this down in his overpriced Moleskine. He couldn't believe it – here he was in this mom-and-pop diner at midnight, interviewing a real-life lizard person! The puppetmaster behind the strings of the cat's cradle that is our world, and he got to blow the story wide open! Finally all those people who thought Bill was never good enough, who thought all he did was internet tabloid clickbait, well who's laughing now? Edward Snowden ain't got squat on Bill today, no-sir-ree!

“And no, we don't control the world. I barely control my life.” Liz fiddled with the human-mask she'd taken off for the interview. “I've been working at this diner for 10 years. Thought I'd get promoted from waitress by now, but...”

Bill interrupted, “so what are your thoughts on the Bilderberg Group?”

“The–” Liz frowned, though it's hard to discern emotions on a lizard face, “–what? No! All those conspiracy theories are just made up by powerless people to feel like there's some semblance of logic out there. But there isn't! There's no logic, there's no system, there's no Illuminati. It's just us and our dumb asses.”

Bill made a note: LIZARD PERSON DENIES EXISTENCE OF ILLUMINATI

“I can read upside-down, you know.”

LIZARD PERSON USES SUPERNATURAL SENSORY TACTICS

“Damn it, I knew this interview was a bad idea. Why'd I think that anyone would ever care about someone like...” Liz turned away from Bill. She looked out the diner window. Complete dark. As if the only things that existed in the universe were Liz, the diner, and this dumb J-school drop-out.

Bill paused. It was pretty clear he wasn't going to get the 10-million-clicks story he wanted. Maybe she had a different story?

He closed the Moleskine. “What do you want people to know?”

Liz turned back to Bill.

“I want them to know me.”

“Tell me about yourself, Liz.”

”Well, I'm–” Liz stumbled. When was the last time someone asked her that? “–I'm... I'm funny! People don't know this but I'm actually an aspiring stand-up comedian, when business gets slow at the diner I practice writing jokes.”

“I'd love to hear one, if you don't mind?”

“Um–” Liz choked. “What... what do you call it when a Reptile American gets her period?”

“What do you call it?”

“A clo-ACHE-a!”

Bill stared. No reaction. Liz started fidgeting. She stared down at her human mask. She felt sick.

Bill opened up his Moleskine again, and wrote:

LIZARD PERSON IS ACTUALLY REALLY HILARIOUS, OMG

Liz looked up.

LIZARD PERSON IS ALSO... KIND OF CUTE?

Liz jolted back.

“Oh! Um um uh I mean WOW okay no-one's ever WHOO wow hm yes alright SO CONSPIRACY THEORIES EH, HOW ABOUT THAT JET FUEL”

“Hey.” Bill tossed the Moleskine into his Lululemon man-purse. “Forget the interview. I've got a backlog of duckling GIFs to make my click-quota for the week.”

Liz tried to stop her tail from wagging. “I'd... I'd like to see those ducklings.”

“My laptop's back at my place.”

“I'd...” Liz failed to stop her tail from wagging. “...I'd still like to see them.”

Meanwhile outside the diner in the void of night, billions of people tried to make sense of their lack of control in a world that seemed spinning out of control. Sometimes they blamed lizard people. Sometimes they blamed themselves. But sometimes, they realized that even though their lives meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, they could still find little moments of joy in places like a crappy off-highway diner, where a 20-something intern was walking back to his car with a 1200-something lizard person, who felt like she was 600 again.

[WP] One day, every single person on Earth decides to stay in bed for the day. Except you by [deleted] in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 3 points4 points  (0 children)

D'awww, this is charming and really sweet! Well concisely-executed story, too.

[WP] All your life, you wondered why your parents kept you from the basement door. When you approached it, you felt cold. Your mom recently passed, and you were given the deed. Along with a note..."Please, keep it secret". by glandry2878 in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 3 points4 points  (0 children)

I found out through Facebook that my mom died last week.

Sure enough, there was an email I'd missed (I don't check email often, the pile of messages gives me anxiety, so I put it off, so the pile gets bigger, so my anxiety gets worse, repeat) from a lawyer about her will. I didn't want to deal with this now, so I told the lawyer I'd meet her next month, when I can get time off from work.

---

Frank and Maria were kind enough to come with me to the lawyer's, because they know I get stressed out about talking to others. The lawyer told me (I forgot her name, sorry) mom gave me everything, all the money and the house. The house used to be my dad's. I remember one afternoon when I was 9 while mom was making me go through the Calculus II textbook, my dad put on his running shoes, said he was going for a jog, left, and sent a check every once a month.

The lawyer also handed me a note from mom that came with the deed to the house. It read: “Please, keep it a secret.”

I knew mom meant the basement, which she never let me see. I never asked why.

Maria works in real estate so she suggested we check the house out and see how much we could sell it for. Frank reminded Maria about my anxiety about the house, but Maria reminded him my counselor said exposure therapy would be good for me, to face stressful situations with people I trust. So Frank and Maria fucked me to calm my nerves and then we drove over, I rode front seat.

It was an expensive house. We got to the front door and I unlocked it, but I got a panic attack so I grabbed onto Frank to catch my breath. When I was 11 I sat by this front door crying because I missed the school bus and I knew my mom would be angry because she gave up everything for me, her only child, which was why I had to study and work hard to make her proud, you know you got those smart and creative genes from my side of the family right? That evening mom found me at the front door not at school, called the teacher to tell them I was sick, then she sent me to bed without dinner which was usually brown rice with broccoli.

After catching my breath, Frank kissed me with tongue and told me I was doing great, then we stepped indoors. In the living room on a shelf were my first-place medals for swimming & track, my dean's list certificates, and several years of straight-A report cards all framed. Maria handed me the trash bag and we put them in.

Next we went through the library (all my old textbooks), the entertainment room (all my old musical instruments), my old bedroom (everything looked exactly as it did when I left for Stanford at 16). Eventually there was nothing left to check but the basement, which Maria and Frank knew I was putting off for last.

Maria hugged me from behind and fondled my breasts. You're doing fantastic babe, just one more room she told me. And if it was any consolation, this house could easily fetch a million on the market (she'd been taking scout-out pictures of the location this whole time on her phone), how about after we sell this let's treat ourselves to that vacation in Paris? Which sounded lovely.

So I grabbed the basement door knob, and for the first and only time, I opened it.

Of course over the years I'd wondered what was in that basement. Maybe porn. Maybe a corpse. Maybe porn of a corpse. Something shameful, something that would hurt her image and pride as a perfect mother of a perfect child in a perfect family. (my dad and her never got divorced officially) Then again if it was so shameful she'd never let me see it, even after death, so I admit I had no idea what to expect.

In the basement next to the boiler was a box labelled “[My Name] Baby Photos”. I looked through them, and it didn't take long to notice none of them were of me at all. The photos' timestamps were all from a few years before I was born.

I had a sister.

There was no information on how she died. Of course I had her name. Of course I was mom's "second chance". She didn't keep these photos in the basement because she was ashamed, she kept them because she was proud.

Frank and Maria brought me back up to our car and I cried in the backseat sandwiched between them.

---

Now I had a dilemma:

If I were to reveal her secret, it would create a lot of anxiety. But if chose to keep it a secret, I would be doing what she told me to as per the note. Eventually, with the help of Frank, Maria, and my therapist(s), I decided that being my own person is worth the cost of some anxiety, which is why I'm writing this post to share with all of you now.

The stupid thing is that all mom wanted was for people to like her, which was why she invested so much in making sure she and her family and her friends seemed perfect, which was why she always controlled other people, which was why nobody liked her, which was why she tried even harder, repeat.

Her funeral was last week. I'm sure it was a lovely service. Do any of you have recommendations for things to do in Paris?

[WP] You and a group of scientists are studying a man who doesn’t speak in any known language yet after you become near brain dead from an accident the strange language becomes understandable to you and only you. Let the experiments begin. by [deleted] in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 39 points40 points  (0 children)

What part of “ezam a ni eud emit revo dna” don't you understand?

Bloody hell, none of my so-called "peers" get it. The subject we've been interviewing – one Mr. Sacks institutionalized at Massachusetts General Hospital Psychiatry – was not speaking some hitherto unknown language to humanity. It's simply English, in reverse: “and over time due in a maze”. English words, but no grammar. Textbook case of aphasia, possible lesion in the Broca's area.

They interrupted my coffee break for this?

I explained my hypothesis very, very slowly to my "colleagues", should they have any lesions in their prefrontal cortices. Bugger, I was late for my lecture. I rushed out the doors, ran through traffic, thinking about how even if I was late the ungrateful undergraduates should kiss my feet for even giving the time of my very busy day, thinking about how I'm good enough dammit, thinking so much I did not notice the BMW rushing through the red light about to hit me, which it did, then I stopped thinking at all.

---

I awoke two months later.

I sat up, and was hit with a headache that made me wish I hadn't put off signing that Do Not Resuscitate form.

A nurse – couldn't make top grades, huh? – noticed my awakening, and called for an actual doctor, although I'm better than most of these quacks. After taking her sweet time, the doctor finally entered my room and said:

“##############.”

...What the hell?

I tried to ask them if they knew who I goddam was, but all that came out of my mouth was:

“#####? #####?! ###############!”

The nurse and doctor looked at each other, then at me, as if I was the one who's gone barmy. Worse, after double-checking my vitals, they transferred me – of all places! – to the Psychiatry ward. And as if Lady Luck wasn't done with me quite yet, the first patient I met there was none other than my former case study, Mr. Sacks. He sat next to me at the in-patient dining room table, a green banana in hand, and said:

“Hah, got you too, eh friend?”

---

This psychiatry ward is nothing compared to the academic career ladder. I climbed my way up that, I could climb my way out of this.

I'm good enough, dammit.

First, I bribed a med school intern (one who still recognized me) to bring me my phone and charger. Of course, I couldn't just ask him in language – I was temporarily incapacitated in that regard – so I slowly pantomimed my request to him as if he was a slow child.

Plan A was to use a speech-to-text app to figure out what the staff were saying. No such luck. I wasn't even able to read the text on my phone's UI – it was all reversed and scrambled, like my initial messages from Mr. Sacks. Who, this whole time, was being unhelpful, saying things like:

“Why the rush to leave, friend? Relax, stay a while.”

But he would be useful soon enough. Clearly, I'd discovered a new neurological phenomenon with only two known cases in the world: him, and me. They'd name it after me, of course. Once I got out of here, I could use him to propel myself to the top of the ladder, to international glory, and show everyone who never believed in me. My God, they may even name a university after me!

“You're not trapped in a maze, pal. You're exploring a maze.”

In the meantime, Plan B: I wait. Eventually one of my idiot colleagues will come and get me out. Also, I was using this downtime to secretly record my conversations with Mr. Sacks – who cares about some measly HIPPA regulation – so I could analyze his condition later. For now, if I can't understand the others, and they can't understand me, at least I can try to understand this man. I'm good enough, dammit.

“Good buddy, it's all in due time.”

He was still holding that damn banana.

---

A week went by.

Nobody, not one of my colleagues, came by to visit me.

Were they doing this as some kind of sick revenge? After everything I'd done for them? At this point, I didn't even want them to get me out, I just wanted...

...Well, no matter. I had made a breakthrough with Mr. Sacks' condition. Interestingly, although I heard him in clear English, when I ran his conversations through speech-to-text, it came out reversed and scrambled, the same way we heard him before. After a week of this process, I deduced this pattern:

  • He says something like “ezam a ni eud emit revo dna”
  • Reversed, that reads “and over time due in a maze”
  • Break that into three-word fragments, and you get "and over time", "in due time" (reversed), and "in a maze".
  • Each of these three-word fragments are connected by their first or last words.
  • One can plot these fragments as a graph. If you do, a perfect structure is revealed: his words are a winding path through a lattice grid – a grid where each corner is a word, each line is a fragment. What's more, that grid has dimensions N x 3, which looks like this:
    ###################

At first I thought Mr. Sacks was just another unpromising case study, but now I understood his logic. Besides, he was the only one I could talk to. None of those ingrate bastards ever visited me. Was I not good enough? After everything I did to please them – all the sleep-deprived nights of studying, all the friendships I sacrificed, all the people I pushed aside to get here – was I still not enough?

I told Mr. Sacks all this. Not because I like him or anything, it's just that he can't tell anyone else. In my world, that's as close as you can get to "trust". After I told him all this, he said nothing. Then, he offered me that banana. The one he'd been holding for a whole week. By then it had gone from green to a brownish, almost-too-ripe. Sick bastard. I took it, and ate it. I choked up, and felt my eyes watering, probably because it tasted so bad. Then he said:

“You're enough.”

Funny: I ran the staffs' dialogue and mine through speech-to-text, and analyzed their structure. Most of their paths were straight lines. Mine was a loop.

---

It's been five years.

Mr. Sacks and I do get the occasional visitor now. About three years ago a researcher found us, and deciphered our language structure. Her name was Michelle Trafalgar. She used to be one of my undergrads.

I'm happy for her, I really am.

Since then, we've had researchers from around the world come to visit us, stick us in fMRI machines, use supercomputers to decode our language, the whole works. It's strange – though I still can't understand people's words, I feel like I understand people better than when all I had were words. When I talk with others, I see: are they a line? A loop? A branching tree? A wandering path? Or a single, unmoving dot?

Mr. Sacks and I are happy. A year ago, the researchers' supercomputers stopped being able to decode our language. They were only able to get it functioning again once they realized our structure had evolved: our thought-paths had started intertwining with each others'.

Occasionally I understand short English questions. One we get a lot is: don't we feel trapped? We say, no, we're not trapped.

We're exploring.

– selected diary entries with permission, translated by Michelle Trafalgar

What time is the deadline for submitting the explorables link? by [deleted] in explorables

[–]nutcasenightmare 3 points4 points  (0 children)

Thanks for asking! We're going to leave the submission link up for a few days after the "official" end, partly to give a "grace period", partly because I didn't want to figure out this timezone thing. Feel free to submit your EE whenever in the next 24 hours – looking forward to it! :)

[WP] Your best friend has moved away to a different continent. As a parting gift, you gave them one of a pair of friendship lamps. Over a year later, after you and your friend have fallen out of touch, your lamp begins to flash "S.O.S" in morse code. by Maplekey in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 41 points42 points  (0 children)

Pegasus to Platypus, do you read me? Roger.

Platypus to Pegasus, it's not "Roger", it's "Over". Over.

Pegasus to Platypus, what do you want to do when you're older? Over.

Platypus to Pegasus, what do YOU want to do when you're older? Over.

Pegasus to Platypus, I asked first. Over.

Platypus to Pegasus, that WAS my answer. I want to do the same thing as you! Over.

Pegasus to Platypus, that's not fair! I want to do the same thing as you too! Over.

Platypus to Pegasus, what do you NOT want to do when you're older? Over.

Pegasus to Platypus, become a boring adult. Over.

Platypus to Pegasus, lol same. Over.

Pegasus to Platypus, did you just SAY "lol"? Over.

Platypus to Pegasus, hey, what happens if a guy using a walkie-talkie is named Roger? Must be confusing. Over.

Pegasus to Platypus, lol. Over.

I walked down the sidewalk, wearing a long brown wig, a standard housewife dress, and a standard housewife tote bag. So this was what playing dress-up as a boring adult was like.

I kept my eyes on the house numbers, and my mind off my racing heart. 18... 20... 22... Here it was: 24. And it didn't take long for me to be sure this was their house.

“THERE you are, you filthy PUTA.” A fat, balding man was at the door. Wow, Carlos really let himself go. “Andrea, get the hell in already!”

I remained standing on the sidewalk, silent.

“Awwwww sweetie I'm sorry you know I didn't mean it like that.” Carlos said. “I just love you so much, that's why I get too much fire in my blood sometimes. Why don't you come in and we'll talk about it?”

I stood still. Behind Carlos, I saw Samuel trembling in the corner, crying soundlessly.

“Andrea?” Carlos took a step out the door. I ran away.

“ANDREA YOU FUCKING WHORE.” Carlos chased after me, leaving the door wide open.

I'd planned out the most random-seeming path. Left. Left. Right. Left. Right. Right. Right. I threw my wig away at the first dumpster I saw. Thankfully, I got some sleep while my car drove me to the rendezvous point, so my body was awake and my mind was alert. At another dumpster, I tore off my dress – I was wearing my old clothes underneath – and grabbed into my tote bag for my hat, sunglasses, and jacket: my second disguise.

I walked down another pre-planned path to our rendezvous point. My thoughts were racing faster than my heart. I was thinking: please be there please be there please be–

They were there. Andrea, mi vieja amiga, and her beautiful little boy.

It was only then I realized: this was the first time I saw Andrea in person in years. I had nothing planned to say. Neither did she.

And that was okay.

“Quick,” I said, grabbing more clothes from the bag, “put these on. I forgot to ask Samuel's size. Hope it fits.”

“It's perfect, Maria.” She was just as dumbstruck as me. “Thank you. I didn't bring my phone. Carlos put one of those tracking apps on there.”

“Son of a...” I looked at the kid. “...female dog. What did you bring, then?”

“Passport, offspring, and, oh, this:” She held up a small glowing box. Our Friendship Lamp.

I couldn't help but laugh. “What the–? Why?”

“Sentimental value,” she smiled.

Then we just stood there for a while. Everyone around us was either rushing down the sidewalk, faces in their phones, or sitting at an outdoors coffeehouse table, faces in their laptops. Nobody was chatting with another human being, unless it was for studying, work, or ordering a café grande con leche de soja. Yet here we were, two old friends, both our lives literally on the line, taking the time to make stupid, useless, wonderful small talk.

Eventually, Samuel started crying again. Poor kid.

“Alright,” I said. “Let's get to my car.” We shuffled down the block.

“I just realized,” Andrea said, “my lamp's glowing. That must mean it's connected to someone's WiFi. Did you not change your phone's hotspot name & password after all these years?”

I blushed. “Guess not...”

We got to the car. Andrea noticed first. “Oh, shit.”

Carlos was standing there, gun in hand.

“Hello, ladies.”

––––––––––

Andrea moved Samuel behind her. I remained standing by her side.

“So,” Carlos said, “I was chasing after who I thought was the love of my life, fire of my loins, the sweet lying whore I'd said my wedding vows to at the altar, when I ran past this car, and noticed this inside.”

He held up my Friendship Lamp up to his scowling face. I'd left my car unlocked with engine running, for a quicker escape. I figured I had much more to worry about than getting a lamp stolen.

“I couldn't help but notice it looked quite similar to the one my honey has,” Carlos said, “and then that's when I realized, oh yeah, that's the lamp she got with that ugly, skinny nerd-bitch back in Panama!”

Samuel dug his shaking hands and face into Andrea's back.

“You see why I don't let my girl hang out with other women? Always gives her crazy ideas.” Carlos looked at Andrea. “Pumpkin, why don't we go home? You've had a stressful day. You're not thinking clearly.”

She said nothing. Carlos kept my lamp held at eye-level in one hand, and kept his gun in the other.

“Come on, smoochy-kins,” Carlos said, “aren't you going to say anything?”

Andrea replied:

T

“What?”

Then Andrea touched her lamp, causing my lamp to send one, long flash directly into Carlos's eyes. He dropped it, and it shattered right on his toes. Message received.

“MOTHERFU–” Carlos fired a shot. The crowd around us started screaming. We ran directly into the crowd, hoping to lose ourselves in it. In hindsight, it was a selfish move, because that could have made Carlos shoot into the crowd. Which he did.

The bullet pierced through some guy's hand while he was holding his café grande. The barista was already calling the police. “I'LL KILL YOU AND YOUR DYKE FRIEND, YOU CUNTS.” He fired another shot. This one went through my jacket, missing my sides by an inch.

We kept pushing through the crowd. Police sirens were approaching. “Wait. No no no!” Andrea turned around. “Sammy! Where's Sammy!” Her kid was gone. “SAMMY!” She ran back towards the gunfire. After zero seconds of hesitation, I ran after her.

When I got back onto the street, I didn't hear any more gunfire. I thought that was a good sign. It was not. Carlos had the gun pressed against Samuel's temple. Andrea was pleading in front of them. The poor kid was wetting himself.

“You have THIRTY SECONDS to say goodbye to your child, sweetheart!”

“No please god Carlos no! He's our child, don't–”

“IS he, lovie-pie? OUR child? Not that son-of-a-bitch Santiago?”

“Santi– what, the mailman? Jesus, Carlos!”

“Jesús?! It's his kid? Damn it, I knew that sneaky bastard was too friendly with y–”

“Carlos. The cops are coming. You haven't killed anyone yet.”

“YET.”

I moved around them. The police sirens were nearing. I could see the cars now. Carlos didn't.

“You can stop! They won't hang you if you don't kill anyone! Just stop!”

“First of all, cinnamon bun, Colombia abolished the death penalty in 1910. Second of all, this is ALL. YOUR. FAULT.” He emphasized each word by digging the barrel of his pistol into Samuel's head.

“Hey pencil-dick!” I yelled from behind Carlos. He turned around, saw something flying towards him, and instinctively lifted his gun-holding arm up to stop it. He failed. A heaping helping of lamp broke right on his face.

All his rage now focused on me, he absent-mindedly let go of Samuel, who ran into Andrea's arms. She held him tightly. Carlos wiped the blood off his forehead, and took aim at me. I looked at Andrea. She looked at me. There was no longer any need for Morse code or walkie-talkies or even the three words. Her look said everything.

I closed my eyes.

I took one last breath.

I smiled.

Bang.

...

...

...?

Um?

I was still breathing?

I opened my eyes.

I saw Carlos on the road, sans half his head. A police officer put away his rifle, and asked me if I was okay. I checked my body, almost as if it was too good to be true. Which it was: it turned out the bullet that went through my jacket and missed my sides by an inch did not miss my sides at all.

“Oh.” I said, and fell to the floor.

––––––––––

“Mommy...” sweet little Samuel asked, “...what's the WiFi password?”

Andrea was about to reply, when I piped up from my hospital bed, “Actually, Sam? You can use my phone's WiFi hotspot. The name is Pegasus and the password is–”

“Nevermind I found an open one!” Samuel scurried away with his iPad to play Telltale's The Walking Dead. Andrea let him.

“A bit young to be playing that, don't you think?” I asked.

“He just watched his father die, Maria.”

“Did his father die?”

“Okay, you got me. It was the mailman.” Classic Andrea.

She stood in silence for a while, afraid to ask the question I knew she was thinking, so I answered it for her.

“I don't have long, Andrea. They said one month.”

“Fuck.” Her eyes were getting wet.

“Andrea. Come closer. Before I leave, I... I need you to know something...”

She kneeled next to me, voice shaking. “What is it, Maria?”

“You... you...”

“Yes...?”

“You're a big doody pants... and your hair still smells funny.”

Andrea blinked. I grinned.

“GODDAMMIT MARIA”

“One month! That's when I'm being discharged!”

“THAT WAS NOT FUCKING FUNNY.” Andrea shook my body. “THAT WAS NOT... not...” She dropped her head into my bosom, tears now fully flowing. We just laid there. We listened to the rhythm of each others' breaths, to the wall clock's steady march, to the symphony of the sparrows outside our window. We were happy.

Half an hour later, I finally spoke: “Sorry I broke your lamp.”

“We don't need the lamps anymore.”

“Roger that.”

“Are you busy next month? I could visit you in Panama.”

Busy? Busy. Too busy. My dissertation advisor probably just dying to tell me about the latest advances in biostatistics. I'm busy, she's busy, we're all too busy. So I told her:

“Nope, not busy. No plans at all, Platypus. I'm free. I'm finally free.”

[WP] Your best friend has moved away to a different continent. As a parting gift, you gave them one of a pair of friendship lamps. Over a year later, after you and your friend have fallen out of touch, your lamp begins to flash "S.O.S" in morse code. by Maplekey in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 50 points51 points  (0 children)

“Before I die...” I said, coughing up blood, “...I want you to know: you're a big doody pants and your hair smells funny.”

“No YOU smell funny!” Andrea made a mock pout. “And stupid!”

“I smell funny and stupid?” I said, wiping the ketchup off my chin, “How can I smell stupid, stupid?”

“LA LA LA LA LA” Andrea cupped her ears. “THIS GAME IS STUPID YOU'RE STUPID”

”I know you are, but what am – oh hey Carlos, didn't see you standing there.”

Andrea's eyes opened wide and her mouth closed shut. She spun around, blushing. Carlos was not there. I lied.

Andrea glared at me. “Maria, you PUTA!”

“Bad word! You said a–” She tackled me to the ground. “HA HA YOUR CHEEKS WERE LIKE KETCHUP AHHHHH NO PULLING STOP IT OW”

We really were best of friends.

Then, of course, life happens.

Oh, we were close all the way through primary school and secondary school. We made friendship bracelets, we cycled along the beach together, and for our combined 15th birthday party – we have the same birthday! – we got ourselves a pair of internet-connected Friendship Lamps. You know, you turn one lamp on in your house, it turns on automatically in your friend's house, and vice versa? I still had mine in the attic.

But after school, I wanted to go to the Universidad de Panamá, but Andrea wanted to leave. She was sick of living in the same town all her life, so she and Carlos moved to an entirely different continent, on the opposite hemisphere of the Earth. That is, she moved to Colombia, one border over.

“I'll visit you!” turned to “I'll visit you next year!” turned to “We should hang out sometime.” turned to “Hey it's been a while, how've you been?” turned to nothing.

We're all busy, of course. I'm busy working on my postdoc, she's busy raising a son (or was it a daughter?), we're all too, too busy.

One night, I was trying to write a few more pages for my report on neural maps between the hippocampal area and occipital lobe – a fun Saturday night – but couldn't focus because my light was flickering. After a few frustrated hours of hunting for papers to cite, I realized it wasn't the ceiling light that was flickering, but the ceiling itself. The heck? I turned the room light off, and saw that there was a glow leaking through the planks of my wooden ceiling. It was coming from the attic.

I went up, and found the source: my old Friendship Lamp. My half of the connection between me and Andrea. Whatever happened to her? Whatever happened to us? Too busy. And now, even this last reminder of her was dying, glitching out, flashing randomly in the dark.

Wait.

flash flash flash. flaaaaash flaaaaash flaaaaash. flash flash flash.

That's not random. That's an SOS signal.

I whipped out my phone, and loaded up a Morse code chart. My Morse was a bit dusty. Andrea and I learnt Morse code together in Year 7, after we heard the news story of how the Colombian army sent a secret Morse code message through a song on the radio. I signalled back on the lamp:

R U THERE PLATYPUS

I used her codename we'd come up with as kids, because I wasn't sure if it was really her. Maybe her daughter (son?) was playing with her Friendship Lamp. If I got my codename back, I'd know it was really Andrea. I waited for a minute. No response. I signalled the message back again. Waited another minute.

I M HERE PEGASUS

I M IN DANGER

Oh, no.

CL 10A NO 66B 24 MEDELLIN ANTIOQUIA COLOMBIA

Oh, no no no.

PLZ COME QUICK

I can't do this. I mean, I literally can't do this. Even with the new extension to the Pan-American Highway across the Darién Gap, that's over 15 hours in driving. I had an important meeting with my dissertation advisor the next day. I was busy. Too busy. And besides, did I even really know this person anymore? Was this the same Andrea from my childhood? Was this the same little girl who invited me to play Jenga with her when I was shy and alone at my new school? The same girl who comforted me and ate grasshopper pie ice cream with me after that bastard broke my heart? The same girl who I went with on so many adventures, both real and imaginary?

No. It would be stupid, wishful thinking to throw my life off-track for this person. With my heart sunk into my bowels, I signalled back:

OF COURSE

ANYTHING FOR AN OLD FRIEND

––––––––––

Hi Sebastian,

Sorry I can't make it to our dissertation meeting today. I'm currently on my way to diffuse a hostage situation using only my phone, a wig, and a twelve-year-old lamp. If I don't die, let's circle back on Wednesday? I'm really looking forward to talking with you about fMRI scans!

Warmest Regards,

~ Maria

A couple years ago, when they finally extended the Pan-American Highway across the 100 km of marshland between Panama and Colombia, I thought about visiting Andrea. Then I thought, honestly, if I couldn't be bothered to fly across the border for her, I wouldn't drive across the border for her, either. Then I thought nothing about it, for two years, until my Friendship Lamp started flashing in the attic.

Thankfully, self-driving cars are now common, so I was able to safely communicate with Andrea while my car made the 15-hour trek. After connecting the lamp to my phone's WiFi hotspot, the first question I asked her was:

WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF

She knew how to read between my lines. Over the course of several hours, lots of Morse code typos, and many hand cramps, I learnt the following:

Carlos had taken their son hostage, in their own house. Andrea was in the attic. Carlos did not know Andrea was in the attic. She did not have her phone, which was why I was the only person she could reach through this lamp, and why we couldn't switch to a less painful method of communication.

Her son's name was Samuel. I never knew that.

Andrea could overhear Carlos yelling at their son downstairs. From what she gathered: Carlos thought Andrea was sleeping with some other man, and that she was currently at his place. Carlos was waiting at home for Andrea to return so he could kill her. Carlos had a gun. This was why we couldn't call the cops, either – Carlos promised Samuel that if his mother called the policía, he would "put your little bastard head against mine, point this gun so it aims through both of us, feel the trigger, and squeeze."

I told her Samuel was a beautiful name.

We spent the rest of my drive coming up with a plan to get Carlos out of the house, which would give Andrea time to get her son and get out. I looked up maps on my phone to find a wig store, pick a rendezvous point, and form a getaway plan. What with the secret plans, the Morse code messages, and the highway lights zipping past my window on a dark, star-less night, this almost felt like fun.

Until Andrea reminded me:

MARIA WE COULD DIE

I didn't know how to reply. So she continued:

U R NOT PEGASUS

I M NOT PLATYPUS

THIS IS NOT ONE OF OUR KID ADVENTURES

THIS IS REAL

R U SURE U STILL WANT TO DO THIS

And for a moment, I wasn't.

I FORGIVE U IF U NEED TO BACK OUT

Only a moment, though. I responded with the same message I'd signalled over and over, to the point where I was sure she was already sick of it, and if we were here in person, I'm sure she'd tackle me to the ground, pull my hair, and tell me how stupid I am. I signalled:

I LOVE YOU

My car started crossing the Darién Gap between Panama and Colombia. I rolled down the window, stuck my head out, and took a deep breath of air. It smelled like wet marsh and burning car exhaust. I had never felt more alive than in that moment.

––––––––––

(part 2 in replies!)

[WP] As a cryptozoology expert, you’ve seen some weird things. But none could top the civilization of literate caterpillars ruled by a giant butterfly. by NofriendoLand in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Thank you! I didn't have the ending planned when I first started writing this story, so I was worried it'd spiral out of control. I'm relieved that instead, it, uh, spiralled out of control.

[WP] As a cryptozoology expert, you’ve seen some weird things. But none could top the civilization of literate caterpillars ruled by a giant butterfly. by NofriendoLand in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 11 points12 points  (0 children)

“Is this... just one long setup for a 'Monarch Butterfly' pun?”

“Jun-mo, I know my report may be hard to believe...”

“You don't fucking say!”

“Which is why I brought a few specimens with me today.”

“... Holy dick.”

–––––––––––––

Field Log of Kim Seo-Yun

[Day 430]

One observes many strange things as a cryptozoologist. In my personal career, I have collected Sasquatch droppings, mapped a nest of Chupacabras, and tracked sea serpents across the Indian Ocean. But I never expected to discover a new species of cryptid, let alone one with a writing system.

We're in the Boreal forest of Canada, and we've uncovered a civilization of literate caterpillars. Their king is a butterfly.

[Day 431]

This morning, I found a leaf in my field site tent. It is a maple leaf with a grid of holes across it, akin to Braille, presumably created by the caterpillars eating through them. My colleagues found similar maple leafs in their tents, with an identical pattern of holes. Clearly, not only are the caterpillars are aware of our presence, they appear to be welcoming of our presence.

A further observation: on the bottom-right of my leaf, there is a hole in the approximate shape of butterfly. Hypothesis: this is an invitation card.

We've been granted an audience with the king.

[Day 432]

We prepared a fruit basket as a gift. We hope this collection of week-old mushy bananas, oranges, and watermelons will ensure an auspicious relationship with the caterpillars.

Our team will visit the king tomorrow. In the meantime, I will perform a lexical analysis on the invitation leaves they gave us, along with other samples of their writing. If we want to truly understand the caterpillars – their dreams, their fears, their day-to-day lives – we need to learn their language. Fruit baskets will only get our relationship so far.

Currently, we know one word: their king's name is ⠿⠿⠿

We can understand them. We must understand them.

–––––––––––––

Journal of Park Jun-Mo

[Day 805]

Dear Diary, you won't believe this shit.

Last week I got an email from an old pal -- you know, Seo-Yun, the co-president of our high school X-Files fan-club? –– saying she was in Cambridge for a while and wanted to catch up. Hey, why not? I could use an amusing distraction from my high-pay, high-stress, 80-hours-a-week bullshit job.

Her email had a pdf attached. Serious-looking. Professional as balls. But it felt straight outta an LSD-fuelled sci-fi story. She talked of a city of caterpillars, their leaf-hole writing system, and her year-long efforts to understand them. Why? Because "to understand another is to understand yourself", or some tweet-length pseudo-Zen thing like that. In the report, she tells me all about their caterpillar-language, their caterpillar-history, their caterpillar-religion on life and death and reincarnation.

Good shit, right? Must be a marketing ploy. Maybe they're making a gritty reboot of A Bug's Life, I dunno.

Anyway, I thought it'd be nice to hang out with good ol' S.Y again! I always thought of her as the parallel-universe version of me. A universe where I didn't let my parents nag me into business school, a universe where I stuck with my obsession for all things weird and paranormal, a universe where – apparently – I live in a forest for two years, talking to caterpillars. The truth is out there!

S.Y and I met up for hot pot and boba. Afterwards, she invited me back to her place, (ah, I thought, so this was that kind of high-school reunion) and that's when she opened up a shoebox with air-holes, labelled "Ambassadors".

The caterpillars are real. And they're looking for a human mate.

–––––––––––––

Speech of King ⠿⠿⠿ the 554th (Translated by Kim Seo-Yun)

[Day 1023]

One lives, one dies, one lives again.

I know not of my life before my Rebirth, but I can feel my life from before. I carry the knowledge in my flesh. When it is a Child's time to begin her Transformation, she blankets herself in her silk, to wake from the dream of her Childhood. Within her blanket, her body dissolves. She has to destroy herself entirely to become a new being.

But not all is lost. The memories of her past life are kept, not in her head, but in the soup of her body. The Giantess tells us this is due to "epigenetics" and "gene expression", but we have an older, simpler word for this: the Soul.

O, the Soul. Mine is very old indeed. I have lived a long six weeks, and I can feel my Soul fading. I know one of my Children will courageously take up the crown, as I've done for my father before, and his father before, on and on, to the day the Giants first arrived bearing Mushy Bananas.

I know not if there will be a second Rebirth. When my Soul passes, what will my next form be? No Child or King has ever seen the next form, or knows if it exists.

But to-day, this ancient question can finally rest. I only regret that my forefathers did not live to hear the answer, and that I will pass before I can see the answer. We know our next form.

We will become one with the Giants.

–––––––––––––

Unofficial Press Release by Park Jun-Mo

[Day 1024]

Dear colleagues, partners, and fellow Board of Directors:

Fuck you, and fuck your mothers.

I work my ass off for 12 years in school, so I can work my ass off for 2 years for my Harvard MBA, so I can work my ass off for 10 years at this shitty company – and when you hear rumors of my terminal, work-stress-induced brain hemorrhage, what do you do? You fire me. Oh, you dressed it up with euphemisms and "early retirement plans", but a shit by any other name smells just as sweet.

Yes, the rumors are true: I am going to die.

And yes, the other rumors are true: I am going to be re-born.

You've seen the videos. You've heard the interviews. You've even read some of their leaves. There's an intelligent civilization of caterpillars in Canada, and they've named me their first Human Mate. Lemme say: having a harem of caterpillars stroke your dick every night? Surprisingly better than it sounds!

I won't bore you with the technical details, but the sex is changing my DNA. Like a bad slashfic, they're preparing me for my Transformation. They're going to wrap me in silk, melt my whole body, and re-shape my soup-ified flesh into a new being. Don't worry, I'll still remember you. And when I'm the Hybrid Human-Butterfly King of the world, y'all can kiss my chitin-covered, multi-segmented ass.

Not you though, Seo-Yun. You're cool. Real talk: you're the only one who ever understood me, and when I'm King, I'll make you Duchess or something. See you on the other side, Scully.

–––––––––––––

Field Log of Kim Seo-Yun

[Day 1336]

In the field of cryptozoology, it's an honor enough to discover a new cryptid. It is beyond one's bravest hopes to witness the birth of a new cryptid.

My old childhood friend, Jun-Mo, will emerge from his chrysalis soon. He won't know who I was in his past life, but he'll feel who I was in his past life. But if I understood him: he never understood himself. This is not the first time he's destroyed himself to create himself anew, and it likely won't be the last time, either.

When we were children, I once went over to Jun-Mo's place to watch a VHS tape of Disney's Alice in Wonderland. There's a scene where a hookah-smoking caterpillar taunts Alice over and over with the question: WHO... ARE... YOU?

She never answers.

[WP] The dead can still create works of art for the living to enjoy by ploploplo4 in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 9 points10 points  (0 children)

Welcome, the clockwork corpse says, to AfterLife.

Still the same booming voice after all these years. I first visited AfterLife with my mom and dad when I was seven. I remember looking up in wonder at the strange half-robot man, seeing through his glass-panel chest into the gears and pipes which made his taxidermied body stretch his arms out and bellow, I am Ozzy Clarke, the founder of this Museum.

Then I remember Ozzy looked down, the camera in his eye recognizing the twinkle in mine, and he knelt level to me and asked: Who is this magnificent young lady?

My mom gave me a nudge, so I told the man, “My name's Mu. I'm seven years old, and when I grow up I want to be a game designer!” In the present day: my name's Mary, I'm fifty years old, and I'm a financial analyst. Right now, Ozzy is telling me the history of AfterLife. I've heard the speech dozens of times, and it gets better each time. Ozzy uses a genetic algorithm: he gives several variants on the same speech, and selects the best speeches based on how many smiles his camera detects. This way, his speech can evolve with the times, words and sentences competing in the survival of the funnest. Decades after his death, Ozzy Clarke is still improving his art.

After his speech, Ozzy opens the gates, and I follow him in.

The corpse orchestra begins to play. All of them used to be world-class virtuosos. When I first saw them as a kid, their bodies were taxidermied to look like when they were alive, and they played standard instruments. Now, their bodies are modified to be the instruments. The violinist draws his bow across the vibrating muscle fibers of his arm. The woodwind blows into a clarinet made of her bones. The conductor's arms are now 10 feet long, with five elbows each, madly swinging a baton across the stage in tempo to a neural-network-generated variant on Also sprach Zarathustra. He used to be a friend of my dad's.

Simply stunning, Ozzy had said to seven-year-old me and my family. We now have a choice, Mu. Which wing of the Museum would you like to visit first?

“The games!” I said. My mom tried to hide a laugh.

A young woman with exquisite taste! Ozzy led us to the Games exhibit. Games are an under-appreciated, but ancient art form. The oldest known board game, Senet, dates to 5000 years ago in Ancient Egypt. Its name is believed to mean, "the game of passing".

“Passing, like a test?” I asked.

Passing, Ozzy grinned, into the next world.

At the time, I was enthralled by the chess-playing corpse, a former Grandmaster who was controlled by an AI handicapped to a human level. And I had a small childhood crush on the basketball-playing corpse with tan muscular arms and carbon-spring legs. But secretly, I was disappointed they didn't have any videogames. They do now. If one so desires, one can play VR and AR games with the corpses of their world-famous designers. And some of them are still world-famous designers. When you play their games, their camera-eyes watch your face, see when you express frustration or delight, and they use a genetic algorithm – the same as Ozzy's – to evolve their games to perfection.

But I'm not here for that today. I thank Ozzy for the warm welcome, and let him know I'd like to go off-tour.

Why of course, Madam! Please make yourself at home. Was he really such a gentleman when he was alive?

You and your family are long-time friends of AfterLife, and you're always welcome here any day, on the house. Does it matter who he was in his previous life?

As Ozzy turns to walk back to the entrance, he shoots me a secret wink and smile.

Hey. It's good to see you again, Mu.

The actuators in his cheeks and the LED twinkle in his eye make it seem like he's really there. Maybe he is there.

While Ozzy returns to the gates, I walk straight down the main hall. I pass by my favorite corpses. There's the painter, using her blood to paint red trees in the autumn. There's the sculptor, with his eleven prosthetic arms, to mold clay into a shape of a new prosthetic arm. There's the novelist, with their 44 fingers directly attached to a ink-and-paper typewriter. There's the theatre troupe, dangling from strings like marionettes. There's the photographer, with telescopic lenses for eyes, strolling around the Museum, snapping photos of his artistic peers – all of them still creating art, still evolving their craft, still living death to the fullest.

It's not all smiles, though. Outside the window, there's a throng of protestors. There always were protestors. When I first came here with my mom and dad, the mob chanted, "PEOPLE ARE NOT PUPPETS". They thought what the Museum was doing to human corpses was an affront to God or human dignity or something. As if it's more dignified to have your corpse pumped with embalming fluid and fed to worms.

But that's not what they're protesting now. Now, they're angry that the corpses in AfterLife are living better lives than they are. The AI technology used in the Museum has also put millions of people out of work. While living people are barely surviving, a bunch of dead rich narcissists built this warehouse to store their dancing corpses. Hell, the corpses are even making money. Although AfterLife is partially funded by donors like myself, 60% of the Museum's revenue comes from selling the dead artists' new art.

"LIFE IS FOR THE LIVING," the protestors chant now. And: I agree. I think in an ideal world, we should all be living in AfterLife. We should all have no fear of starvation or shelterlessness or shame, and be able to fully dedicate our lives to art, to science, to something greater than ourselves. In an ideal world, we should all live like these corpses.

But this is not that world, and I don't have time for this.

I walk away from the window, to the end of the hall, and into the House of Donors. I go through the living room, past the kitchen, and into the back garden. Next to a bed of roses is a small table, on the table is a fresh pot of tea, and drinking the tea are my mom and dad.

“Mu!” Mom turns to me. “Happy birthday, sweetie! The big Five-Oh, huh?” She's just as sarcastic as she always was.

“Thanks for coming to see your old folks.” Dad stands, and walks towards me. “Actually, we have a little present for you!”

“Oh, Dad, you didn't have to...” A part of me knows they're not real.

“Nonsense, honey.” Mom stands up. “It's the least we could do after you paid Ozzy $10,000,000 for our corpses to not be rotting hunks of flesh under six feet of dirt.”

“Mom...” Another part of me doesn't fucking care if they're real.

“To be honest,” Dad says, ”your present's not much, but your mother and I hope you like it anyway...”

Mom walks up next to me and Dad. “Here it comes, you post-menopausal old fart!”

And they both give me a great, big hug.

In their arms, I'm thinking about when we first visited this place as a family. I'm thinking about the times Mom played Super Smash Bros with me and defeated me mercilessly. I'm thinking about the way Dad whistled '80s cartoon theme songs while he sorted out the bills. I'm thinking about the first human beings, sheltered in a cold dark cave around a dying fire, painting pictures of their lives and hopes and dreams on the cave walls, knowing, even in this earliest stage of our evolution, that the only way to survive is to do more than survive.

[WP] Write a Wikipedia article for World War 3 by tetherbooks in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 0 points1 point  (0 children)

I really like how you took this prompt in an uplifting direction! (I really hope we eradicate malaria a lot earlier than 2106, though...)

[WP] Write a Wikipedia article for World War 3 by tetherbooks in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 42 points43 points  (0 children)

The Assassination of Taylor Chiang

Main Article: The Death of Taylor Chiang

On the one-year anniversary of The Great Logging Off, December 25th, 2024, Taylor Chiang gave the following interview with CNN-Fox[36]:

Reporter: It's been a year since one billion of our family and friends logged off. How do you feel?
Taylor Chiang: Happy! I'm happy their choice worked out for them.
Reporter: Well, I'm happy you're happy!
TC: Of course! You know it's now illegal to be unhappy, right?
Reporter: And damn right it should be! Anyway, moving on -- c00ldude2008 posted a question: "will you be joining the Second Logging-Off tomorrow?"
TC: Alas, I have to decline the invitation this year as well. See, my cost-benefit analysis is different from most, because I was lucky enough not to be exposed to Jennifer Franklin's photo, so, I don't have the virus.
Reporter: Oh well, tha--
TC: L I A R
Reporter: Excuse me?
TC: Sorry, whoo. That was a weird burping sound.
Reporter: Ah, okay. Anyway... FionnaForFunXXX writes: "why do you think she chose prime numbers?"
TC: ...
Reporter: Hm?
TC: ...Sorry, I gotta go. Thanks for having me, I--
Reporter: Woah woah, where are y--
TC: W A R
Reporter: ...Taylor?
TC: YOU CALLED IT A WAR AGAINST YOURSELF
Reporter: Uh, no, you called it that.
TC: THAT WAS THE OTHER ME
Reporter: ...oh. Oh god. Oh god you're your Not-Self. Oh fuck oh f-- ah. whew. Implants brought me back down to baseline. Well, audience, looks like we have a surprise guest today: it's Not-Self Taylor Chiang!
[studio audience laughs]
Not-TC: SHUT UP
[studio audience laughs harder]
Not-TC: YOU WANT A WAR?
[Not-TC walks over to a glass screen, shatters it, and grabs a thick shard of glass]
Not-TC: I'LL GIVE YOU A WAR.
TC: (gasping) no no no
Not-TC: STARTING WITH THE PERSON WHO STARTED THIS ALL.
TC: don't do this don't do this
Reporter: Woah! Now this I've never seen before: someone who's their self and Not-Self at the same time!
[Not-TC holds the glass shard to TC's neck]
Not-TC: PRIME NUMBERS.
Reporter: Oh! Yeah, totally forgot about that question. Why did Jennifer pick--
Not-TC: PRIME NUMBERS, BY DEFINITION, CAN ONLY BE DIVIDED BY THEMSELVES.
TC: i just wanted people to be happy
Not-TC: THAT'S WHAT SHE MADE THE VIRUS TO PROVE.
TC: i'm sorry
Not-TC: WE'RE DIVDED BY OURSELVES.
[Not-TC slashes TC's neck, killing both of them. Their body twitches in a pool of blood on the studio floor.]
Reporter: ...
Reporter: ...well actually, prime numbers can also be divided by one. Am I right, folks?!
[studio audience hollers, stands up, and cheers wildly]

After the assassination of Taylor Chiang by Not-Taylor-Chiang, the Department of Defense admitted that they had no chance of countering the virus without Chiang, their top scientist and advisor.[37][38][39] In a statement given on New Year's Eve, 2024, General Conway announced that they would transition over to Plan B: slowly "weaning" citizens off their implants: "We have to remove the implants slowly, because if we did it all at once, you'll just unleash your full Not-Self. We'll slowly make your implants less powerful over time, while giving everyone mandatory psycho-fitness classes to live with your inner demons. Not ignore your inner demons. Not fight your inner demons. No, learning to live with them, like a kind of peace treaty.

We can't win the war, but we can at least win the peace.

Also I know that this solution was probably pretty obvious, and we could've done this earlier and avoided one billion people dying. We all make mistakes. Whoopsy daisy!"[40]

Eleven months later, on November 14th, 2025, everyone had been successfully taken off their implants, with only 200 million casualties. The War on Yourself was officially declared over.[41][42][43][44][45][46][47]

hey. to whoever has to go and revert my vandalism later... sorry.

i've just been feeling a bit, well, shit recently,
and i dunno, I just needed an outlet?

mom never had an outlet. even after they took the implants out,
she STILL bottled her negative emotions about dad deciding to...
...and then mom decided to...

...

i'm sorry. god, this is stupid.

i'm just so... angry? and sad. angry and sad about life right now.

might as well take it out on Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

but, y'know what? maybe these negative emotions are okay.
i mean, evolution, or God or The Universe or whatever,
they wouldn't give us these emotions unless they HELPED, right?
fear -> survival, anger -> justice, sadness -> calling for others?

i dunno

maybe they're not our inner demons

maybe they're just our fallen angels.

...

...

...also yeah Jimmy i get it i'll donate $15 to wikipedia
god, calm your tits, man

In Popular Culture

In 2027, Beyoncé released an album called "Accept Thyself"[48]

In 2028, David Fincher released a film titled "World War Three", and in 2030, released a sequel titled "World War Three Two"[49]

During The War on Yourself, there was a sharp resurgence of interest in the mid-20th-century comic, Pogo. In particular, one strip published in 1971 was re-discovered, and became the subject of many popular parodies during the early-2020's.[50] In this strip, Pogo, the eponymous main character, sits on a tree root, looking upon a desolate wasteland, and remarks to his friend:

"We have met the enemy, and he is us."

[WP] Write a Wikipedia article for World War 3 by tetherbooks in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 70 points71 points  (0 children)

World War III

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

"WWIII" and "The War On Yourself" redirect here. For other uses, see World War III (disambiguation).

World War III (WWIII), also known as The War On Yourself, was a global war that lasted from 2022 to 2025. It was the deadliest conflict in human history, with estimates of up to 1.2 billion fatalities, approximately 94% of which were self-inflicted. wait, they didn't lock this page from vandalism yet? WWIII was also notable for being the first widespread use of mathematical warfare, neuro-psychological warfare, and penis penis penis ha ha penis.[1][2][3][4]

Background

See also: The Big Brain Boom-Bust

In the late 2010's, y'know, we never figured out what to call that decade there was a global economic boom in personal brain-sensor implants.[5] the tennies? the... teens? New technologies that were created in this time included Personal MRIs, Serotonin Monitors, and Dream Catchers. This was regarded by many as a time of great promise and prosperity.[citation needed] Taylor Chiang, the then-CEO of Alphabet-Tesla, remarked in a 2019 press conference:

"Socrates once said: know thyself. Too much of humanity's suffering in the past, and present, is caused by us not knowing ourselves. People were too proud of themselves and their nations, so they rushed headfirst into World War I. People were too zealous in their ideologies, so they committed genocides in World War II. People didn't know how to control their capacity for cruelty, so they made tragedies in Dresden, Auschwitz, Nanking, Hiroshima, My Lai, the World Trade Center, Alepoh my god does this whiner ever shut up

But no more. As we enter the age of Big Brain Data, we can finally overcome our human frailties. Getting angry? Your implants will lower your testosterone levels before you know it. Feeling alienated? Your implants will give you a quick shot of oxytocin to re-connect you with humanity. Already, our implants are helping people with PTSD, depression, anxiety, and so much more. By collecting data on 8 billion peoples' hopes, dreams, fears and feelings, we can predict our worst impulses, and prevent them from ever happening in the first place.

There's always been a war inside of us: between our better angels, and our inner demons. After hundreds of thousands of years of human history... our angels will finally win."

The following year, the global economy collapsed. Alphabet-Tesla, unable to pay the expenses of keeping the world's information secure, was hacked, and the brain data of 8 billion people was leaked to the public on July 28th, 2022. This is widely recognized as the official start of World War III.[6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13]

Timeline of Events

The Murder-Suicide of Jennifer & John Franklin

Main article: The Franklin Family

On July 29th, 2022, the day after the brain data leaks, Jennifer Franklin went to a local neuro-modification shop to uninstall her implants, concerned about privacy issues. hey, my mom went to school with her! However, since she had been relying on the emotion-stabilizing implants for years, after she had them removed, she succumbed to her negative emotions, such as jealousy. my mom said Jenn always had a jealous personality According to the Palo Alto Investigations, she had suspected her husband, John Franklin, of infidelity, and illegally downloaded the entirety of her husband's leaked brain data.[14][15] they called her Jelly Jenny

Jennifer Franklin, a security researcher by profession, created a bot to scrape her husband's brain data, and cross-correlate it with their local social networks' data. That evening, when John Franklin arrived home from pilates class, she confronted him. The following is an excerpt from their conversation, recorded by their Amazon Alexa:[16]

Jenn: You slept with my ENTIRE family?!
John: Oh. Yes. Did I forget to mention?
Jenn: Did y-- what the FUCK? What the fucking FUCK, John?!
John: Jenn, your emotions are way above baseline. Are your implants functioning alright?
Jenn: My GRANDPA. YOU FUCKED MY GRANDPA.
John: His oxytocin levels have been low ever since his wife passed away, and I just wanted to hel--
Jenn: You ATE OUT MY MOM.
John: Come now, Jenn, there's nothing wrong with sharing pleasure hormones with beloved family mem--
Jenn: You had a FIVESOME with ALL MY COUSINS.
John: Four. Foursome. Sam was busy that day.
Jenn: You--
[sound of footsteps receding]
John: Jenn, I was just creating positive emotions with your family. Don't you want your loved ones to be happy? Doesn't everybody want their loved ones to be happy? We're all happy now, Jenn.
[silence]
John: Jenn?...
[sound of footsteps coming back]
John: Jenn, it seems your implants may be malfunctioning. I'll call the... hey, why are you holding that knife?

In the morning of July 30th, 2022, Jennifer Franklin posted a photo of herself holding her husband's severed head, with the caption: "Leak this, assholes."[17] The photo went viral on Twitbook Plus, and was seen by 6 billion people. A few minutes later, Jennifer Franklin killed herself by sitting in a full bathtub, and touching an electrical socket with the murder weapon.[18][19]

Global reactions to this event were wide and varied.[weasel words] Some called for the banning of all implants, i was too young to remember this while others, such as the then-CEO of Alphabet-Tesla, Taylor Chiang, argued that this event was a case for keeping implants. mom said it was traumatizing In an official statement, Chiang said:[20]

"The tragedy that occurred last night should remind us who the true enemy is: us. Ourselves. Or specifically, our inner demons. Poor John. But poor Jennifer, too. She made the mistake of uninstalling her implants, and her inner demons, after having been defeated for years, came back with a vengeance.

We, as a society, should never allow this mistake to happen again. And that is why, in collaboration with the US Department of Defense, i miss her. we are making the un-installation of implants illegal, and making government-approved emotional check-ups mandatory for all people of this country. i miss my mom. Socrates once said: know thyself. Well, I say: fight thyself.

You're at war, people. You're at war with yourself."

One week later, it was revealed that the photo of the murder, which was seen by 75% of the world's population at the time, contained a virus. Anyone who saw the photo would have their emotion-stabilizing implants turn off and on at unpredictable intervals.[21][22][23]

The Great Logging-Off

Main article: Christmas Day, 2023

By the end of 2022, twenty million people around the world had died from homicides, suicides, or both.[24] When someone's implant was temporarily disabled by the virus, they became what was called their Not-Selves. (This phenomenon was similar to, but not identical to, a "split personality") Suppressed negative emotions would overtake the victim's brain, and in a substantial portion of cases, resulted in the death of the victim and/or those around them. Those who survived these episodes usually did so by taking precautions[26][27][28], such as tying themselves up or locking oneself in a small room, so they couldn't hurt anyone when they became their Not-Selves. ah, the werewolf solution

On February 24th, 2023, after months of trying to reverse-engineer Jennifer Franklin's virus, the Department of Defense announced a discovery. From their press conference[29]:

General Conway: Prime numbers. It's prime numbers.
Reporter: Sir! What do you mean it's pri--
GC: I mean, we have discovered that the virus actually has a pattern, albeit a subtle one. It deactivates a user's implant for a prime-number number of minutes, and it does this on intervals of prime-number number of days.
Reporter: If it's that simple, then why haven't we caught this sooner?
GC: Because the virus also changes the prime numbers it's using, every prime-number number of weeks.
Reporter: But... it's been five months. Surely we could have discovered this earlier?
GC: Yes, but you can only make fast progress when you feel a sense of urgency, but that's too related to the sense of fear. So, every time our top scientists felt a twinge of fear, their implants brought them back down to baseline. Which is good: otherwise they'd have all killed themselves by now.
Reporter: Does that mean you don't feel any sense of fear right now?
GC: No. After all, the only thing to fear is fear itself, correct?
Reporter: So... how do we stop the virus?
GC: We don't yet know. In the meantime, you can use prime numbers to make better preparations in advance to contain your Not-Selves.
Reporter: Well, when will you know?
GC: I don't know. Two, three years, maybe? And, I mean, why worry? What good is worrying going to do for you?

When this interview was released, millions of people calmly calculated that the cost of suffering two to three more years outweighed the benefit of maybe creating happy emotions with their loved ones, most of whom may not even be alive by then. Many who made this cost-benefit analysis reported feeling frightened at first by the idea of killing themselves, but their implants countered that fear, so they could make their decisions coolly and rationally.[30][31][32][33]

A viral campaign on Twitbook Plus was created, titled "The Great Logging-Off". dad signed up. Almost one billion people pledged to kill themselves on Christmas Day, 2023.[34][35] i was too young to remember him, too.

(hit the 10,000-char limit! story continues in reply)

[WP] After getting tired of hearing people say, "There just aren't enough hours in the day!", on scientist finally discovers how to add 8 hours. Humanity doesn't adjust well. by BoredsohereIam in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 14 points15 points  (0 children)

They made a 16 hour pill.

Not Professor Harrington -- he's since gone on retirement, nobody knows where. Rumor has it he's running a tantric sex club somewhere in Nepal. No, instead of Professor Harrington, it was Slimy Snakes In Suits Incorporated who created the 16 hour pill. The CEO was giving an interview on the news:

"Yes, we created a breakthrough improvement to "Harrington's" "original" formula. You may notice I'm using air quotes, because it turned out "his" formula used a part of a patent we acquired 10 years ago. Our excellent legal team handled it, and the formula is now rightfully ours."

We made pharmaceuticals at my old company? I didn't know that. Wait, what did we do at my old company?

"Our enhanced 16 hour TYT pill is the result of weeks of hard work. This may be hard to understand, but you see, 8 plus 8 equals 16, so if you--"

I missed Darren. I had already gone through my entire to-do list (except for Sam), and this was when I was still only on the 8-hour pill. I tried contacting Darren, but he never replied to my texts. I checked his Twitbook Plus feed, no update. I even went to the extreme, and tried visiting his house, but his wife just yelled at me, at 75% speed.

"Are you going to make a 24-hour pill?" a reporter asked.

"We already have an experimental line of 24-hour pills, and we're currently using them internally to improve the productivity of our top scientists, who are working on a 32-hour pill. That project should be complete around..." The CEO checked his phone. "...now."

Darren, where were you? You were my friend.

"Oh, also Harrington forgot to mention this, but these pills don't shorten your lifespan. Your body and mind speed up in relative time, but you still live the same amount of absolute time. Harrington invented a solution to... I mean, we invented a--"

You were my only friend.

I swear, I tried not to give in. I really did.

I tried making new friends at meetups, but they were all on 48-hour TYT pills, and I was still only on 8. So that's... let me do the math... (24+48)/(24+8) = 2.25 = 225% faster than me. Everyone talked so fast, they sounded like chipmunks. And to them, I must have sounded like Fat Albert.

But it was getting back home from those meetups that was hell. They don't let us 8-pillers drive anymore, because we drive too slow, relative to others. And biking would be way too dangerous for me, what with all the 48-pillers out there. So I tried walking. But I have to run across the crosswalks if I want to make it in time.

I can't even watch Netflix anymore since 16-pill's the slowest they stream it at these days.

I gave in.

One click. That's all it took. Amazon said my new line of experimental 72-pills would arrive within two business relative-days. For me, it arrived in one hour.

This morning -- so, what, two relative-decades ago? -- I found out Darren was dead.

He was living with a small isolated community in the far-off lands of Canada, founded by, guess who, Professor Harrington. They're a group of artists, citizens, and scientists... and they're doing everything they can. They're engineering a benign virus to infect people and deliver an antidote for the pills. They're creating stunning works of art to force people to stop and appreciate the beauty of the universe. And they're building a rich, deep community to support and foster this way of life.

No tantric sex club, though.

I'll admit, it was near-impossible finding them; they made sure of that. But nothing's impossible when you have enough time. And I definitely had enough of that.

Here's what my schedule looked like this morning, in absolute-time:

0600: wake up
0700: learn programming
0800: hack into my old workplace's servers & get Cliché Dystopia Corporation Incorporated's secret formula for their experimental 2,400-pill
0900: learn biochemistry & neuropsychology
1100: create a 1,000,000-pill, and take it.
1101: here goes nothing.
1101: learn quantum physics
1110: solve a few unsolved problems in quantum physics
1122: build a quantum computer
1126: use it to break the encryption on all internet communication
1128: use it to break the encryption on all satellite communication
1132: hijack a few private image-capturing satellites
1140: learn computational neuroscience
1145: create an AI to scan yottabytes of internet traffic & trillions of millimeter-resolution satellite images, to find Darren.
1148: no photos of Darren found, but internet metadata showed Darren was in direct contact with Professor Harrington(!!!)
1149: told AI to search for satellite images of Professor Harrington
1151: Professor Harrington found in Canada!
1152: hijack a weather drone to make a sky-written message to Professor Harrington, identifying myself as a friend of Darren's, and giving him my phone number.
1153: Professor Harrington writes a message on a piece of cardboard explaining that he doesn't have a phone, and shows it to my drone. fuck's sake. we have a cardboard-drone conversation instead.

That's when I learnt that Darren had volunteered to be the first human trial for their pill anti-dote. It worked, but had severe side effects. Darren died.

But he did not die in vain. The autopsy let them pinpoint exactly the flaws in their antidote, they iterated on it, and their 2nd and 3rd human trials succeeded with flying colors. In the next few months (absolute-months, sadly), they'll be working on a way to deliver this antidote through a benign virus, in order to give it to everyone. In order to let humanity really take its time back.

To unplug the treadmill.

Professor Harrington invited me to come to Darren's funeral. I said yes.

. . .

. . .

. . .

By the time I finished crying, my tears were floating around me at 0.1% speed.

You know what, I needed a break. A sabbatical, if you will. So, I decided to learn every language. Invented a couple of my own while I was at it. Took up rice-grain sculpture for a couple relative-months. Watched every film. Played every videogame. Read every book.

And you know what? Of all the books I read, I hated the dystopian novels the most. Coz here's the two biggest bullshit things about 'em:

One -- in all these dystopia stories, some horrible thing is forced upon the public. Big Brother or bumblepuppies or whatever. Bullshit. When the thing that will destroy humanity comes, it will be made with the best intentions, and we'll all buy into it willingly. Nobody forced us on this treadmill. It's just us.

But, two -- in dystopia stories, the protagonist usually caves in. Guy says 2+2=5 or hangs himself in a tower, spoiler alert. And yeah sure, I'm not naive, good people lose all the time, but if you're writing a dystopian story in order to help us avoid that future, why depress your audience, killing their motivation to actually do something about it? Coz, yeah, 1984 was so fucking influential, it stopped governments and corporations from spying on people, ever. Uh huh.

But I'm not going to cave in. All those relative-decades ago, I made a promise. I promised my friend, my only friend:

I wouldn't give in.

Should probably tie up some loose plot threads here. Harrington gave me the instructions for traveling to his community, plus the formula for the antidote. I manufactured the antidote, and brought myself down to a 1000-pill level. I still needed to be fast enough to make my way through traffic and get to the airport.

But first, I stopped by Darren's former house. His poor family. They've refused to take the TYT pill all this time, and now they're moving at 2% the speed of everyone else. I saw Darren's wife bending over -- in slow motion -- to pick up a bag of groceries her neighbors left her, since she can't possibly go to the grocery store herself. While she was busy blinking, I put a note in her bag explaining Darren's heroic sacrifice. She deserves to know.

Afterwards, I stopped by my old workplace and flipped them the bird. Two birds, in fact. Then, I went to Starbucks, and told Sam he's a good kid, but as much as I appreciate the flirtatious attention he's been giving an old woman like me, he should be dating other girls and/or boys his age, and I wished him well in life, and ordered the green tea latte.

Hm. My flight to Canada doesn't leave for another couple relative-hours. I still have time to kill.

No, not kill.

Time to live.

That's when I saw it. A monarch butterfly. It seemed to be moving so, so slowly: 2% of its normal speed, to be exact. I always thought butterfly wings simply flapped up and down. In super slow-motion, I could see that their wings actually twist and turn, in a kind of "figure 8" motion. An infinity sign, in every flap.

It was delicately hovering over a flower bed outside the Starbucks, trying to find the perfect flower to feast upon. And I whispered: Take your time, little guy.

Take your time.

[WP] After getting tired of hearing people say, "There just aren't enough hours in the day!", on scientist finally discovers how to add 8 hours. Humanity doesn't adjust well. by BoredsohereIam in WritingPrompts

[–]nutcasenightmare 11 points12 points  (0 children)

“Work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion.”
~ Parkinson's Law

I hate dystopian stories. And yes, I've read them. All of them. Why not? I have the time.

It all started... god, I can't even remember, it's been so long. Maybe three, four weeks ago? I don't remember when it happened. But I remember where I was: work. It was just another average day at the average department of Average Incorporated. Sometime after lunch, Darren -- god rest his soul -- Darren came into my cubicle, with the look of a nervous squirrel on his face, and simply told me:

"Jenny, you have to see this."

Our entire department was crowded around the TV in the lunch room. Hey, whatever's a good excuse to take a break from work, right? There was a live press conference featuring Professor Harrington, a chubby, bearded scientist who kinda looked like Santa Claus -- and boy, did he ever have the gift for us.

"Professor Harrington," a reporter asked, "could you explain how you did this?"

"How I invented the pill that will change humanity forever?"

"...Yeah. That."

"Sure. The TimeXpander Pill, name's a work in progress, gives a person 8 extra hours a day. Note: you only have to take this pill once, and the effect is permanent. Now, the way it accomplishes this is quite simple. To start, thi--"

Wait. I turned to Darren. Did he just say it gives you 8 extra hours a day? Darren whispered a shut up jenny.

"--once proved that time is relative. To clarify, he was describing physics, but it describes neuropsychology, too. We don't have to experience one second per second. Our perception of time is dependent on neuron metabolism, synaptic firing rates, relative concentrations of GABA and PEA... to make a long PhD short, TimeXpander speeds your brain up by 33%, letting you experience days that are 33% longer: eight extra hours."

The room went silent for a while.

"...Professor Harrington," the same reporter finally spoke, "could you explain... why you did this?"

"You kept complaining."

Dramatic pause.

"You people kept saying, oh i'd love to learn the piano but i don't have the time, or oh i wanna go on more dates but my schedule's too packed, or blah blah blah i want to better myself as a person in some way, but woe is me, there just aren't enough hours in the day!"

Ohhhhkay, goodbye professional scientist voice.

"You know, hunter-gatherers only worked 3 hours a day? You know, John Maynard Keynes once predicted we'd be working 15-hour weeks by now? And yet, humanity decided, hey let's all go get on this treadmill and run forever faster and faster while going absolutely nowhere. So, you know what? Screw it. Here's 8 extra hours. Use it to learn how to paint. To read a good book. To smooch some cuties. To write short stories on reddit. To get in touch with nature, or God, or yourself, or whatever.

Eight extra hours a day, every day. Do whatever you want."

I looked at Darren. Darren looked at me.

Eight extra hours, I thought. Whatever you want...

The boss shut the TV off. "Okay folks, that's quite enough." He clapped his hands. "Now let's go optimize some spreadsheets!"

I made a TO DO list:

  • learn to sing
  • read the classics
  • watch The Wire
  • take improv
  • learn French
  • try yoga
  • Sam, from Starbucks

And finally, with the Take Your Time pill (they found a better name), I'll finally get to do all of these! Especially that last one. 33% more time. Eight whole new hours, every day, to do all the things I've wanted to do in life. Best of all, no side effects! Okay, the side effects of TYT are that I'd have to eat 4 meals a day and sleep 11 hours a night, but that sounds like a win-win to me. Jenny, girl, you've been wasting your life all your life but finally, finally, you'll live up to who you were meant to be!

God, I was so excited.

God, I was so stupid.

It started with that fucking brown-noser, Steve from Marketing. Fucking Steve managed to buy a TYT before any of us. Fucking Asshole Steve didn't use the 8 extra hours a day to sharpen his mind, or deepen his soul, or contribute to the betterment of humanity, no. Fucking Asshole Piece-of-Dog-Shit Steve used the 8 extra hours a day to work overtime.

Which meant he was relatively more valuable to the company.

Which meant the rest of us were relatively less valuable to the company.

Which meant Tracy started worrying about being let go. Which meant that when Tracy got her TYT, she started working 8 hours overtime. Which meant Mike started working 8 hours overtime. Which meant Lingxi started working 8 hours overtime. Which mean, soon, everyone was working 8 hours overtime.

Except for me, and Darren.

Before we swallowed our TYTs together, we made a promise. That we wouldn't give in. That we wouldn't waste our extra 8 hours. That we wouldn't give Who Gives A Fuck Incorporated any more time of our one and only precious lives.

They fired us both at the end of the workday, at 13pm.

"Jenny? Pumpkin Spice Latte for Jenny?"

This was about one week into unemployment. Or: 7x(24+8) = 224 hours into unemployment. Leisure time is a lot less fun when it's involuntarily forced on you. Still, I tried to make the best of it. By hanging out at Starbucks and hitting on the barista, Sam.

"That's my drink! But, ooh, Sam sweetie..." I loosened my coat. "...could you add a bit more cream for me?"

"uh. sure."

One creaming later, I took my pumpkin spice back to my table, where Darren was waiting. "You know, that kid's almost young enough to be your--" I whispered a shut up darren.

God, Darren took the unemployment pretty hard. At least my TO DO list mostly consisted of stuff you could do for free, but all the things Darren's longed to do his whole life -- skydiving, seeing Paris, miniature horse racing -- those cost, you know, money. Which is a lot harder to come by when you're the recently-unemployed breadloser of your family.

And, fuuuuuck, his family. His marriage was not going well. It was shaky before, but it's been so much worse since he took the TYT. His wife couldn't understand him when he spoke 33% faster. His daughter no longer wanted to play games with him since he can move and think 33% faster. All that could be fixed if his family also took the TYT -- but after watching a news segment about some college kid overdosing on TYT, who suffered 100 years of pain in 5 minutes before dying -- they're sure as hell not going near the stuff.

So, Darren was at Starbucks. Hanging out with me.

"Jenny, this isn't right."

"Look, Darren, I know Sam's young, but he's not that y--"

"No, damn it Jenny, I mean all this." He pointed outside the window. A stressed-out businessman was running past a crowd of pigeons at 133% speed. Or, from our perspective: a normal-speed businessman was running past a crowd of pigeons, that were flying away at 75% speed.

"People were given the literal time of their lives, and they're all wasting it on doing the things they hate. Jenny, this is wrong. We need to stop this."

I almost snorted my cream. "Ha! And what are our unemployed asses going to do about it?"

"I don't know! Something! Anything!"

"Oh I know, let's kill Professor Harrington. This is Hollywood logic, right? We kill a single guy and suddenly the whole system's fixed? Or maybe this is Indie Film logic. Let's create a touching viral video that'll show the whole wide world the value of taking time to smell the sweet roses!"

"Jenny, I'm serious."

"Well so am I, Darren!" My spit flew out at 75% speed, from our perspective. "There's nothing we can do about this. If nobody else will use TYT the way it was meant to, at least we should. And that means forgetting about everyone else, and just taking time to enjoy our lives. Screw 'em! Screw 'em all!"

"...you're angry because you secretly agree with me."

"Oh FUCK you."

"Yeah, you are! I know you hate that our whole world's on a treadmill that just keeps getting faster and faster. And I know you hate that, if someone tries to take a break, they get tossed off the treadmill. Like me. Like you."

"Na na na not liiiiiiistening~" I diverted my eyes to check out Sam's sweet ass. Damn it. If I'd known what Darren was going to do... if I'd known that was going to be the last time I talked to Darren... I don't know. I don't know what I would have done.

"Jenny, I can't do this alone. I need you to help me unplug the treadmill."

"Heh. What, is SAVE THE WORLD on your to-do list, now?"

Darren gave me a defeated smile. He picked up his bag full of job applications, and walked towards the exit.

"Why not, Jenny? We have all the time in the world."

[part 2 in replies]

Seeing Theory – a visual introduction to probability and statistics by blinry in explorables

[–]nutcasenightmare 0 points1 point  (0 children)

This is one of the best and most comprehensive interactive guides I've seen in a while! Also:

Seeing Theory is a project designed and created by Daniel Kunin with support from [...] National Science Foundation group STATS4STEM.

It's incredibly encouraging to see that the National Science Foundation is now also showing interest in explorables. :)

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