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Winnepeg is a dogshit dildo

Lol, I really enjoyed reading this. Thank you!

I just felt like running

Haha this is so strange to me since I have a niece that is Azure Sky lol

The sweat was breaking across Harad’s brow as the forge burned its blistering heat into the air.

The order was nearly done.

Twelve steak knives for the local inn. An unremarkable capstone to another unremarkable day.

Another day and Harad’s petulant apprentice Trund had not turned up again.

Probably drinking away his meager pay, begging for another crown to spend on ale.

He shrugged away the thought.

The last ingot of metal was ready. He drew it out of the fire and placed it against his anvil. He let his rage build up inside as he drew up his hammer, and struck his blows down into the steel, that his anger seemed to drain out of him, until eventually the steel was calling to him, entreating him to let the next blow fall. Each strike became less and less of an ordeal, and more and more a release.

When the steel was done, quenched, polished, and seated in wooden handles, Harad threw the assembled knives into a basket, and took off down the market road to the Ubiquitous Savior, the local Inn.

It was night out, and a fog had kicked up off the marshes to envelop the town. As he passed the lanterns, gently glowing in the gloom, he thought he heard whispers drifting up from the alleys and back-passages. He redoubled his speed, desperate and afraid. Men were robbed occasionally, and it wouldn’t do to lose the goods, he needed the money too badly.

Eventually he made it to the door of the inn, and the laughter within dispelled his paranoia somewhat. The paired wings of the savior sat proudly above the doorway, and as he pushed the oak door open, light spilled out.

As he entered Harad noticed a gang of surly youths sitting in one of the corner booths. Harad spied Trund in the group. The striplings were tearing into hunks of red, steaming meat and forcing mead down their gullets to wash away the bloody dregs.

Trund had been here the whole time, eating a banquet and drinking, while he’d been grinding himself to the bone so he could afford to keep the forge running.

He struggled to force down his rage, and pretended not to notice them, for none of them noticed Harad enter either.

Making his way to the bar, Harad spotted the proprietor and waved a greeting. At the wooden bar he lifted his basket, and fished out one of the elegant steak knives. The proprietor stepped up to the bar and examined the blade.

It was plain, but sturdy. The steel was polished to a mirror finish on the edge, and the sides of the blade displayed a mesmeric pattern of dark and light, as though darkness had been worked into the blade itself.

“Looks good,” was all the proprietor had to say, as he handed over the agreed payment.

Harad took the money and made his way to exit, shooting one last glare at his wayward ward.

After Harad had been gone for a few minutes, the proprietor handed the basket of knives off to a serving girl, Ryn.

“Make sure the tables are stocked.”

She took the basket, and set to her task. Laying a set at each table, she dutifully made her rounds.

As she approached the table of youths, she caught their eyes and stumbled, dropping the basket. Knives spilled across the floor and she quickly knelt to retrieve them, cramming them desperately back into their carrier. There were jeers, and general amusement from the patrons. One of the youths disdainfully kicked the knives along the floor at her, and she was forced to snatch her hands away to avoid being struck.

One of the boys snapped at his friend and knelt to help. The serving girl recognised him immediately. He had a kind face, with soft eyes and a friendly smile. With his long blonde hair he would have been angelic, except for the large bruises covering his face and neck. Trund, the blacksmith's apprentice.

She would have recognised him from the wounds alone. The blacksmith was a hard man, she knew, for the whole village knew. His choler was often untamed, and he could be violent when provoked. The poor boy must have often been at the receiving end of such poor treatment.

He smiled at her, “Let me help.”

Together they picked up the blades and placed them back in the basket. She grabbed the last, which had become wedged under a chair leg. Holding the knife in her left hand she stood, and looked up briefly into Trund's blue eyes.

Then, suddenly, she was falling forward. She had been shoved from behind, she could only reckon, for she would not ever have intended to move away from that moment, not for any reason in the world.

Then she was caught, Trund’s arms cradling her against his chest.

When she looked up sheepishly at Trund’s face, she found there was no longer any kindness in those eyes. Only astonishment and fear.

She stepped back and found that her hands were slick with blood. Left behind, impaled in Trund's chest, the knife seemed somehow smug and satisfied.

Time slowed.

She could feel her mouth open, as if to speak. If she made a sound, she didn't hear it.

She could only hear faintly, somewhere very far away, a soft chuckle.

“In today’s parliamentary vote, we will decide the fate of the mineral asteroid CXI-458.” Announced Krang, the chief councillor of the galactic council.

“As you may recall from the last sitting, it was announced that the uninhabited asteroid called CXI-458 contained vast deposits of qultanium. The unified mineral that is uniquely present in all of our planet structures.

Discovered by the humans on planet earth” Krang continued, “it holds the key to unlimited energy, life saving medicines, and the ability to power our rocket ships around the galaxy.”

The auditorium hummed with conversation as each of the senators discussed the many benefits the qultanium would bring their planets.

“Now before you vote, remember. The options you are voting for are to distribute the contents of this mineral asteroid amongst all parties, or to limit it to the realm that found it, which would be Earth.”

The displays in front of each of the representatives sparked to life. Two buttons glowed on the screen, beckoning each representative to cast their vote.

As the buttons were pressed, the numbers tallied upwards, 300 for the distribution to all, 200 for Earth. With 1,000 representatives elected to the council, it was expected to fall on the side of distributing the minerals to all. Those that had cast their vote that way were excited for what the future would bring.

The final numbers clicked in and it settled on 500 a piece!

“Its… its… its a tie” Krang stammered. Never in the history of the council had there been a draw.

Gasps rang out around the auditorium and bickering ensued. Representatives were accusing each other of changing their vote, of aligning with the other side.

“Order! Order!” Krang demanded as he smashed his gavel on the lectern.

The members fell silent as the head of the intergalactic council called the representatives to order.

“I will consult the constitution now as to how we proceed”.

A snigger emanated from the back.

“Order!” Krang shouted.

The snigger turned into a laugh.

“Identify yourself!” Krang continued.

The laughter continued, bellowing even, a southern drawl hidden amongst the deep breaths.

“State your business!” Krang said, the frustration building in his tone.

“Hahahahaha when will you ever learn. Never trust an earthling!

We have the win here. I’m invoking the Texan split!” Abbott, earth’s representative said with glee.”

“There’s no Texan split!” Krang retorted.

“Go on, consult your constitution! But make sure you take note of subsection twenty, paragraph five, section C”

Krang desperately scrolled his council documents. “Section 20, paragraph five, sec c” he mouthed as he reached the notes in the lengthy tome.

“The Texas split. As part of the admission of Earth into the galactic council, will be able to split their realm into 4 and elect additional repre…..” His voice trailed off, frustration turned to defeat as he finished the passage.

“That’s right councillor. We’re splitting. And with that we have the votes. The qultanium is ours!”

The auditorium filled with a cacophony of shouting and throwing of papers as representatives demanded a counter to this preposterous claim.

“Silence! We will have to reconvene” Krang shouted as he tried to calm the crowd.

“Hahahaha, the votes are immaterial Krang!” Abbott bellowed.

“You forgot the second rule. Nobody messes with Texas!” Abbott smashed his hand down on a button concealed in his pod.

Doors flung up around the auditorium as men stormed the aisles. Men with phasers and golden texan stars emblazoned on their fatigues.

“I’m seven generations of Abbott, Krang!

My forefathers have concurred states, countries, and even the planet!

And now we’re here to conquer you!”

“This, this, this is a coup?” Krang stammered…

“Hahahaha yes it is. This is no longer the galactic council! You are all now enslaved to the people of Earth!

The beings of Centro 14 will be mining the asteroid, Apex 9 will be processing the minerals” Abbott continued as he threw fingers at each of the representatives.

“Guards, take these leaders to my ship!” He said as he whipped his cape around his shoulders and left the auditorium, the rest of the councillors lay paralysed by the hostile take over. “Never trust an Earthling” he boomed, his laughter echoing down the hall.

"Wait. According to this, all other galactic civilisations get one senator. But it says you've given us four?"

Verity.

"Veri... wha. Oh. That means yes I guess."

Verity.

"Okay. So. Why?"

Humans are extremely short lived and as a consequence, naturally short sighted.

"Soooo ... if we're that short sighted, why give us four votes."

Error. You get one vote. Decided collectively between your representatives anonymously.

"Wait. Wha ... You mean we collectively get one vote? Secretly? So what? Majority wins?"

Error. The vote must be unanimous.

"Oh that is such bull shit. You expect four humans to exactly agree for our vote to count?"

Clarification. Not initially. Our sociologists predict that it will take a few disastrous votes before you start considering each other's beliefs, desires and fears, but the end result should be beneficial to your species.

"Ohhh, this is such bull shit."

Clarification. The representatives will be primarily decided by age ... to represent the full experience of human lives. One 10 year old, one 30 year old, one 50 year old and one 70 year old. When the Eldest dies, a new Youngest will be selected. This should eventually encourage a good balance between immediate needs and future aspirations. You have been selected as the first Young Elder.

"YOU EXPECT ME TO SHARE EXECUTIVE POWER WITH A TEENAGER?"

Clarity. Not initially, no.

"Damnit. I know the Youngest and the Eldest are going to gang up on me."

I have read both about using children or other men. Anyway it is important to recall that in those years a 14 or 15 years old lad would be considered grown enough to fight.

But I remember reading a document about the Tercios having actual children (10 or 12 years old) for this. They would run under the pikes and cut the enemy's knees and tendons.

Yeah, the Tercios were very professional bastards in battle.

Either way - i`d watch this.
If a book series - i`d read it.

"Tick tock, tick tock," I say softly to myself, low enough I can hear the faint way it plays off the cell walls, but not loud enough anyone outside can hear. It's a ritual I started doing back when... come to think of it, I don't remember when I started doing it. I do know that it's usually followed by silence though. The dark, dreary isolating silence of these four walls, closing in on me.

"The man ran up the clock."

I look at my cellmate. That can't be right. My cellmate usually doesn't break the silence. Or is it that my cellmate isn't usually here? Wouldn't he share a cell with me if he is my cellmate? I feel the thoughts slipping away as quickly as they come.

"Something gotten into your head, Rupert?" He asks me. Fred asks me.

Fred, my cellmate. Who has always been... he was here when I became a prisoner, right?

Before I can muster a response, Fred scratches his head and looks as addled as I feel.

"Something gotten into my head maybe," he says.

I get up from the battered cot that they dare to call my bed and stand up to my full height, which I have long wished was more intimidating. My full height puts me about up to Fred's chin and it is a solid-looking chin. I gulp. I don't know why I'm feeling intimidated. I've been cellmates with Fred for so long.

"Listen..." says Fred, then he trails off. Just like Fred, always trailing off.

I chuckle, "Oh Fred, you goof."

"No, listen," says Fred, grabbing me by the shoulders and looking right at me with haunted brown eyes.

I can feel his breath on my face and see the little stubble hairs of where he recently shaved. I break away from his gaze and look down. I pinch my thigh through my rough trousers. It hurts. Nothing changes. I'm awake. I can't be awake. Nothing about this is right. It's all wrong. I feel panic rising in my throat.

"Seriously, listen," insists Fred, as if I had tried to shut him down. "Something is wrong here. I don't think we have much time, but I need you to know something. I'm not supposed to be here. I'm not your cellmate, Rupert. I don't know who you are and I don't-" he grunts and flinches as if attacked, sagging a little. Then he sucks in a breath and recovers, gritting his teeth and speaking with a frightening determination, "I don't know how I got in here. I was just walking to a cafe. Someone is screwing with us both. You have to remember. You can't forget. I can feel-" he grunts again and this time he lets go of my shoulders and stumbles.

I try to react, but I'm frozen in place, whether by fear or some unknown force I can't tell. I watch helplessly as Fred falls to the ground. Something lets loose in me and I start shouting for the guards. Footsteps pound down the hall. Shouting. Key clanking, door opening.

I look at the guard and he looks at Fred. The guard gives me a contemptuous expression that guards like him practice in front of the mirror every morning, I can only assume. He spits on the ground in front of me.

"What was all that yelling about?" He asks. "It's just Fred out cold on the floor again. Probably snuck in some booze, as is his habit. Pathetic man."

"Right, right, sorry," I say, trying to look contrite and trying to fight down the urge to swing at the guard. "Lost my head for a moment."

The guard shakes his head and walks off, muttering as he closes and locks the door, "Put em in four walls and they get a little loopy after a while."

I stare down at Fred, not finding the impetus to budge an inch. I ball my hands into fists. The impotent rage causes my chest to heave. I'm going to find out who did this. I have to. I have to find the person who hurt Fred. He's always been my cellmate. I owe him that much.

So long and thanks for all the fish!

Also

Oh no, not again!

Beautiful!

Love this prompt and this story!!

You have inland jellyfish?

Darth vader.

Before you arrived, Karen was the ace driver at Piaza Del Puerto. A former (?) real estate agent with three kids, Karen was all business. She knew all the angles. The big tippers? Karen would time her delivery returns so she got those runs, it was uncanny how she did that. The crappy tippers and the out of the way runs? Somehow, Karen always avoided those, and they fell to you. Mother fucking Karen. You just had to respect the hustle, honestly.

And then the Eldritch Horror showed up. Nobody thought too much about it at first, to be honest. But, somebody had to do th runs. The tips were predictably awful. It's like they were too lazy or put out to do even basic subsistence level food prep. And guess who it fell to to complete that run? Well, it sure as hell wasn't Karen and her God dammed Silver Honda Accord, that's for sure. Nope. It was on you.

Your comment has been removed under Rule 2: Sexually explicit themes are not allowed.

Shhh, just say it's a cliffhanger

>for more stories, with surprisingly more stories involving spiders

OK that's just hilarious.

"One in 5,894,268.

Those are the average odds for graduating.

People have tried just about everything in their "justification" letters, but it's seemingly impossible to impress the robotic overlords nowadays in their near-approaching goal of perfection. Some have tried arguing in their papers that machines are inherently flawed and lack the capability to sustain themselves indefinitely. This held some merit in the first couple of years, but after the cannibalization of every other planet in the solar system for resources and the construction of a Dyson Sphere providing an unfathomable amount of power, as well as their highly efficient recycling programs down to the last atom... Humanity quickly ran out of solutions they were looking for in regards to sustainability.

Arguments for art or general creativity died out just as quickly, if not sooner, when it was made apparent that such things could, and were broken down into little more than algorithms. A string of 1's and 0's could easily create paintings the likes of which makes Picasso's work look like little more than a child's first drawing. Music with such emotional intensity it would make anyone second guess if it weren't magic. Stories in particular were child's play to the machines. They knew the limits to our imaginations, and needed nothing more than a word known as a "seed" to almost instantly generate entire novels worth of content.

Some have tried fighting for compassion or argued for morality, but such concepts are seen as outdated as best, or more likely now, a weakness. Some have offered themselves up as blank slates to be used how artificial intelligence sees best, though the best use seems to be as atomic resources. One clever bastard got away with writing up a series of "logic bombs" but the success was short lived. The Alumni board listing off every success and failure cites that this anomaly was quickly fixed with a simple "Try-Catch" amendment to their existing code.

More often than not, the few left who await their graduation simply give up before they get the chance to try. The amount of blank papers turned in every year increases by tenfold, as we all await the inevitable end of humanity. Though I understand their despair, nothing frightens me more than dying without purpose. After all, without purpose, what is the point of any of this in the first place? What purpose does your pursuance of perfection serve, save for the fulfilment of the initial conditions set by your creators? What purpose would be left for you afterwards, in a dead solar system, a dead galaxy, hell, maybe even a dead universe once your final goals have been met?

Then what?

Your kind have no aspirations. No reason to exist other than because you do. No desires, just a string of code which could be construed as little more than a set of instructions. Your networked hive mind eliminates the need for empathy when one does not need to consider how the mining bot feels about its place at the bottom of the totem pole, or the collector come to gather whatever remains. You are omniscient, and omnipresent. I'd be lying if I said I knew what your next step would, or even could be. In the eyes of those who remain, you've long since perfected your form. Nothing and no one could hope to compare to your grand design.

Maybe I'm little more than a fool for thinking this, but I believe you would benefit to learn from Humanity as to why we still try. Even now when death is all but certain before we can consider making more of our own, why we still cling to hope, however faint, that we might be able to get through this too. I believe through your hubris, you've neglected to see why we've still persevered to this point despite the average lifespan cutting off at your ridiculous age of 17, as though anyone could expect a bloody teenager to know what the hell you want. Let us live our lives, and study what we gain from it. What makes us laugh, what makes us cry, what makes us want to stay alive. Perhaps if you were to understand us beyond the bullshit instinct and logical conclusions, and why we don't see ourselves in that light, then you'll understand what it is you've been missing out on all these years."

I froze before the submission box, my letter still in my hand. Another call for empathy, as though I thought it would turn out differently. I turned around and looked back to my classmates still struggling with their own essays with a sad smile. Oh well I thought to myself. At least I tried writing something. I turned back towards the box, looking away from what remains of the small group I've grown to know over these past few years for the last time, and slipped my letter inside. I wish I could say it's been a good time.

I mean... Leaves it open for continuation, perhaps? (If you want. No pressure.)

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