I could get lost in an IKEA. That’s what my girlfriend always said, as if that were some kind of dig. Who among us hasn’t gotten lost in that sea of Scandinavian furnishings? Sure, there are literal arrows that direct you about the floor, but how am I supposed to follow the arrows when I’m busy deciding whether my apartment more thoroughly desires the Extorp or the Järvfjället. Because that is important to consider. Contrary to popular belief, places have desires.

Take IKEA for example. When you wander into that warehouse of cheaply made, cheaply purchased furniture, you typically have a set agenda. “I need one Kallax—white—and one Norberg—white.” But you never leave with only that which you came for. Why is that?

My take? Often, when entering that blue and yellow warehouse, you are also in a state of flux. I, personally, have never entered an IKEA without having first undertaken a move. In that state, I’m impressionable, malleable, and more sensitive to the whims of place. And so I load up on Voxnans and Mästerbys, Toftans and Hemsjös. Not because I wanted them, but because the place wanted me to want them.

Perhaps another, simpler, Occam’s razor-like explanation is the coalescence of capitalism and consumerism. Ok, you got me there. Maybe a business as an example is too easy of a mark—we all know, inherently upon entering, what that building desires.

A town, on the other hand, is a tougher subject entirely.

In all my life I’d never encountered a place with a greater sense of desire than when I stumbled upon—and subsequently got the fuck out of—Sublimity.

Sublimity shouldn’t have existed. And yet, some years ago I found myself—freshly divorced, listless in life—driving along a suddenly paved road in the backwoods of rural Washington. I came upon an idyllic welcome sign—rich brown wood, a mountain landscape expertly painted upon its face, stark-white, calligraphic script set atop the scene:

“Welcome to Sublimity. Where life is sublime.”

“A little on the nose,” I thought to myself. But, the moment my car rolled upon the street and my eyes took in the welcome sign, I was overwhelmed with a sense of dread. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I broke into a cold sweat. Was it because I was lost in the woods in an unfamiliar place? Or was it because of something more insidious?

The town itself was—for lack of a better word—sublime. Townspeople sauntered along a bustling Main Street, the shops of all kinds lined the road evident of a booming economy. As far as the eye could see it was square jaws, coiffed hair, colorful dresses, and pearly white smiles. Indeed, everyone in Sublimity appeared beautiful and happy.

As I was drawn further into the center of town, my senses were assaulted by tight, straight lines of two story homes with white picket fences and manicured green lawns. I stopped my car in front of one such house—nondescript, the same as every other house on the street in every way, except for what was on the front lawn. My car lurched to a stop, I rubbed my eyes and stared at what appeared to be two and a half children playing in the front lawn.

You read that right. No, I don’t mean the half-child was a small child. No, I don’t mean “half-child” in the “half-man” sense of Tyrion Lannister. What I mean by “half-child” is that there was an actual human child—beautiful, smiling, playing with their brother and sister in the front yard, not a care in the world—bisected down the middle of their body. No, not a legless torso; the child was all right side. You’re saying to yourself right now, “what the fuck?” And I was—and admittedly still am—right there with you.

“Where the fuck am I?” I muttered to myself.

Part two coming soon. r/InMyLife42Archive

Virtue

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not a philosophic topic. more psychology the philosophy there

The technician entered the hospital room with a scowl. “You are advised by the Re-lived Justice Agency that you have given birth to a known felon. A parenting councilor will be in to speak with you shortly. Baby 783, previously known as Samantha Hailings, has been immediately remanded to the state for processing where she will be rehabilitated and raised by the Institute for Karmatic Restoration. This process offers your child a 63% chance that she may complete this life with a positive balance and have an improved outcome in her next life. You may consult the business office should you need to apply for financial assistance to fund her care.

“You will be provided with the necessary Re-felon Birth Certificate which will provide you access to the Institute for Karmatic Restoration’s website. There you may access your child’s progress records, including the best calculated date for Baby 783 to move to their next incarnation.”

A "Weekly" is also a type of periodical (newpaper or magazine). Perhaps the story is supposed to be about a reporter? Or formatted as a news story?

The uncanny valley

Can we get a pic of the contest specifics? I might be able to figure from context clues. Or you could jist intepret it however you want and get real creative with your writing.

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ok that made me laugh, nice writing

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lol

IV:

We flew before the face of One-Who-Watches-Over, god of all hives, and in our flight we found transcendence. To die bringing new life, or die in exile, had always been our only fates. This was something new.

Our god followed in our wake, with great implacable strides. We had dared to draw his gaze, and now there was no escaping it. Perhaps that meant our destruction, but who could fear death less than we?

But if we had aroused his wrath by disturbing his rest, he forgot our transgression when he saw them. The Destroyers. One-Who-Watches-Over roared in outrage, as he saw them crawling upon the great white expanse of the hive.

Who can comprehend the power of a god? He moved like the wind, impossibly fast for something so immense. We retreated as we recognized the Vessel of the Clouds that he bore with him, that flashed as he brought it to life, and then spewed forth a smothering fog that made all strength flee from those that it touched.

But we had never before seen the Gleaming Bird that suddenly appeared at the end of his massive forelimb, its beak snapping hungrily as it sang through the air.

How beautiful and terrible is the wrath of our god.

V:

Jacob knew how to deal with hornets; anyone who plans on keeping bees has to know a thing or two about that. If you see a hornet's nest, well, you burn those sons of bitches, no buts about it -- an ounce of prevention, and all.

But if hornets got in while were you weren't looking, and were already inside the hive, well, there wasn't supposed to be a whole hell of a lot you could do about it except pick up the pieces afterwards. And that didn't sit right with Jacob. Before he'd retired, he'd been a rancher all his life. If wolves or coyotes got after your stock, you didn't just throw up your hands and hope you had better luck next time.

When the drone comet led him back to one of the beehives and he saw the hornets, he already had an idea of what he'd do, one he'd been chewing on for a while. Swearing and cursing up a storm, Jacob sparked up his hive smoker, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out his gardening shears.

The smoke dazed and slowed bees and hornets alike, but there was no mistaking the one for the other. Those damn "murder hornets" were big. And Jacob, well, he'd been scrappy in his day, and he still had pretty fast hands. Snip! Snip! Snip!

Jacob laid into the hornets buzzing around the hive, shears flashing in the sun. Then he pulled out the frames, nudging the bees aside gently, and snipped the hornets he found inside. For near half an hour he worked, swearing and snarling and stabbing and snipping, until every last one of the damn things, probably forty or fifty in all, was dead cut in half on the screen at the bottom of the hive.

In the end, it could have been worse -- a lot of bees were dead, but there were plenty more. The Queen was dead, too, but most of the brood cells were intact, so the workers could hatch a new one. He mopped his brow through the mesh of his mask, heaving a sigh of relief. Nearby, he saw the strange drone comet, hovering and circling. Glancing at the hive, he realized he didn't see any drones among the workers.

"I'll be damned," Jacob mumbled, eyeing the congregation of males bees, curiously. "You boys led me right back to your own hive, didn't ya? Shit! Good work." Out of the corner of his eye, Jacob saw a large insect buzz past. He turned and raised his shears again, but lowered them as he recognized the familiar shape and pattern of a virgin queen in flight. He smirked, and gestured in her direction, whimsically addressing the bees. "Well, you best get on -- ya'll still got some work to do."

VI:

Has any spark-bearer beheld such terrifying wonders as those that we saw that day, as the anger of One-Who-Watches-Over consumed the Destroyers, and rescued the hive from oblivion? When he finished with them, he turned to us, and we imagined for a moment that our turn had come, that his Gleaming Bird would slay us for our insolence.

But it did not. His roar to us was soft, and gentle as a breeze, carrying no reproach, and his ancient eyes were full of wisdom and understanding. We realized, in that moment, that we had achieved something none like us ever had: this day, all of us had attained glory. Whatever happened to us now, none of our number would have flown in vain, for each one could lay claim to continuing the life of the hive. Brothers all, we were sires to whatever future lay ahead for the hive, and fathers to all that was green upon the Earth.

But more glorious even than that knowledge, was that for a single perfect moment, we hung suspended in time before the face of god, knowing that he saw us, and was pleased.

Then One-Who-Watches-Over extended a vast forelimb, and as we followed his ponderous motion, a She-Who-Must-Be-Kindled appeared, as though summoned by his command.

And we rejoiced as we dove to join her, for even with all we had accomplished, there was yet even more glory to be attained.

Actually got goosebumps from that one! Gonna need to demand moar, even if thats pointless.

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Okay so you could do an experienced weekly reporter. Or twist things up a bit and use a scientist who for some reason has an experiment each week blow up. You could make that like a curse or something.

Think outside the box and brain storm some. Go nuts.

Nice job using an established character, without actually using them.

It tells those of us in the know exactly what happens next.

What a beautiful story

The follow on will be brilliant! (won't it?)

A bottomless bronze sea, engulfing each pillar of our home, impassable by foot. They sizzle in the sun, keeping destruction at bay. A defensive measure so massive only the Keeper could have managed to construct one, let alone four of them.

While workers can take to the skies to gather sustenance, the invaders are left with no further reinforcements. Slowly, their numbers will dwindle into nothingness as the final pockets of strife are snuffed out.

Kent?

Oh. Hi, Supes.

Nice work.

Once there were three yellow birds who lived on Lemon Tree Street. The little one, Fergus, didn’t like bird seed, so lived on worms. The middle one, Murdok, didn’t like worms, so lived on bird seed. The third bird, Trixie, didn’t like bird seed or worms, so bye-bye Fergus, bye-bye Murdok. But now I‘m too big to fly, so I write short stories. It’s not much fun, but it keeps me busy, I suppose. Would you like one more? Yes, it’s got birds in it. Of course. Bird stories is my thing, my expertise. Don’t like it? Tough titty.

Edit: Not a great story, but it met the required criteria. So that’s something.

Would you mind if I try translating it? Any specific recommendations?

As far as I understand, the names are female, but I should do my best to keep them referring to themselves as genderless as possible.