writing-ocational

[writing-ocational]

It was insulting is what it was. How could anybody live on 5 dollars?!? You yelled, and raged, and acted like an utter fool. Acted in such a way that you wouldn’t normally act to anybody. 

They took every word in stride. They were well compensated for this work. “I’m sorry”, they said. “I’m so, so, sorry”. When you finally left, it seemed like all eyes were on you.

Everybody waiting, they were looking at you. They knew. Five dollars wasn't enough to live on. With five dollars, you could grab a quick meal on the way home, like you had been planning on. You may even make it home. There was food for dinner, you could cook that. You had paper towels and napkins and toilet paper, had toothpaste and floss. Food would probably run out first. Then you’d have no choice. You’d go to the store, you wouldn’t make it. 5 dollars wasn’t enough to live on… which meant… well, there was really only one other option. Would you get in a car accident? When? Would someone hit you right now, walking across the street to your car? No, you still had the five dollars in your pocket. 

Perhaps you had heart issues you didn’t know about? Dying in your sleep would be nice. It wasn’t very likely though, you weren’t old enough for that, and there was no family history.You made it to your car just fine, and got in. You hesitate, you think that you may be able to live just a little longer, could stretch this five dollars thin, so thin… until you got desperate. People had tried, but… it never worked. Some people went down in a blaze of glory, like that old lady who had spent her last few thousand on a luxury cruise. The night before she had died, she had said that it was the most fun she’d had in years. Others try to make their money last as long as possible, but you need certain things. The more frugal you plan on being, the less you get. You had wanted to live comfortably. You expected… well, a lot more than you got. A lot more than a death sentence. You put the car in drive, and go to the Burger Queen, you place your order, hand over the money, and pull into the parking lot to eat it. You chose the drive-thru so that nobody would see you cry. You didn't want to die, but who were you to argue with fate? You ate your burger, and your fries. They were objectively fine, but in your mind, they tasted better than usual. Eventually you pulled yourself together and began the trip home. There was a couple on the side of the road, flat tire. You pulled over to help them. You thought that perhaps that’s how you’d die, but you didn’t. They thanked you, and on you went, you wouldn’t need your spare tire anymore anyway. It’s a good thing it fit. You got home. You fixed dinner. It was alright. You went to bed. There was a part of you that just wanted it to be over. The suspense was horrid, unbearable. Waiting for death was more than unpleasant. You called off from work. You wouldn’t spend your last days working. The park was a fifteen minute walk away. It sounded nice. You went to the park, because you wanted to. You sat on a bench and watched the children and dogs and ducks. You sat on a bench and saw two men approach. They were also watching the children. They did not sit on a bench. A little girl ran after the frisbee her friend threw, twords the men. They moved, quickly. She screamed. The parents were too far away. The men were running towards the road, they had the girl. They would have to pass you. A moments hesitation, but only a moment. There were worse ways to die. You grabbed the man’s arm as he was passing, brining both of you to the ground. You reach out, trip the other man, feel a pain in your side, but he has let go now, the girl is free, she is running back to the adults. One of the men gets up, you elbow the other in the nose. Something crunches. Everything seems blurrier, you hear sirens. You see the girl hugging her mothers, you seem them looking at you, knowingly. Yeah, there were worse ways to die. The knife is still in your side, paramedics are here. It’s too late. You close your eyes. Between the knowing gratitude of a mother and the cold interior of an ambulance, you know which you want to be the last thing you see. There are many voices now, but they are muffled, fading away. You are fading away.

Everyone received the exact amount of money they would need for the rest of their life. Most people got many thousands or even millions, while you were given exactly five bucks.

[writing-ocational]

All of us?

so in my human sexuality class we voted for who participated the most over the semester, and when i won my response was literally “y’all had to listen to my opinions all semester and you’re rewarding me? weird.”

[writing-ocational]

Time unravels. The End. The beginning. Neither matter, for neither exist. ‘Time’ A.S. we have come to know it is no more. Well, we have something similar.

The special scale of measurement, for everything time used to do. Life is odd, not better or worse, just different. We still go to school, but the next day the people may be different. Every family tends to stay in one place, it’s rare to move, because you never know when you’ll end up tomorrow.

I suppose I must give the the universe credit, nobody is ever sent to before the unravel. Nor are they sent during. It would likely be disorienting to experience time, after living with ought it for so long.

I’ll let you go now, I can feel the change coming. I wonder who I’ll meet next?

Start or end your story with “Time unravels, The End.”

[writing-ocational]

My name is Natile Gray. I am the best therapist in the 50 states, possibly the world.

I’ve been practicing for hundreds of years, under different names.

My trick? It’s simple, I absorbed the bad emotions of my patients.

There used to be others like me, but they were foolish. They tried to create grief to feed off of. If only they’d realized that the world is sad enough on its own. If you help it, then everybody will want your help, and there is no shortage of heartbreak and death.

All my patients leave better off then when they came (they are my patients, victim is such a bad word to use for what I do), I have never onc e had a complaint.

My life is perfect, and if you care to visit, yours can be a little more perfect too.

You feed on negative emotions like fear and guilt. But unlike horror movie monsters with similar MOs, those negative emotions go away when you eat them leaving your “victims” better off than they where before.

[writing-ocational]

You weren’t sure how, but you could always tell.

You could see guilt, and not in the general; ‘they look guilty’ way. No, you could actually measure how guilty somebody was of something.

For example, your boss was 52% guilty of cheating on his wife. That means the other person knows, and the guilt is shared.

You work at the local prison, a natural line of work.

You see the numbers all the time.

99%

82%

59%

84%

Then, there are a select few.

18%

10%

7%

21%

After a long time, you’ve learned how the numbers work. They give off a little guilt by association. Anything below 20? They were just in the area. They are guilty of not stopping the crime, not of commiting it. Below 5? Basically 100 percent innocent. The rest is guilt they begin to feel after getting arrested, even if they aren’t guilty.

Below 30 is tricky. They knew something was going on, but they ignored it. That still doesn’t make them guilty. Well, it does, by 30%, but they didn’t actually commit the crime.

Every time I see a low number, I wince. They don’t belong here. So, when it gets real late, when the guards on the night shift switch, I sneak in, and I sneak them out.

Most sentenced are there for life, but I still ask. It’s only polite.

“Do you want to come with me?”

Most do.

I have contacts. People who know, and people who I’ve blackmailed. After all, I know what they’re guilty of.

Boss handles the paperwork, and a friend gets them a new life. And me? I have a job, and I always look.

You are an anti-vigilante. When you feel a person was wrongly imprisoned you break them out of prison.

[writing-ocational]

You don’t touch the third continent. That was the rule. You let them suffer in silence. You may not want too, but it’s for your own good.

If you go there, you can’t escape. Stolen magic surrounds the land mass. If you leave, you die. Technology snatched up from the rubbish of the second continent arms the soldiers.

Each brainwashed to believe fully in the emperor.

So many weapons. All stolen. All used. All working. All deadly.

No, you don’t mess with the third continent. Not if you want to live.

In a huge world, three continents, three nations exist. One is a flourishing kingdom with full of magic and diversity, one is a republic with marvelous technology, and one is a dystopian dictatorship with an army you don’t want to mess with.

[writing-ocational]

You never know who someone is until they die. I have seen many great artists move on. I have experienced the greatness of many. Many clueless about their greatness. Many lost. Some died by their own hand. Some scream. Some cry. Some are oddly calm.

Most are sad. Seeing their success brings them some joy, but so many say to me, “I wish I could have done more.” That’s when Picasso ran. He and Vincent had been so quiet, but when Picasso saw what was to me one of him, he ran. Was a right pain to catch too. I hadn’t been expecting it. Not at that point.

I hate the ones that run. They’re always such a pain.

I like the quiet ones. I liked Vincent. He was quiet. When he saw his work, I remember he had joked about his ‘trash’ being hung on display. Poor Vincent really had self-esteem issues, but I saw the smile. He tried to hide it, but I saw the joy.

I love that speck of joy. They all get at least a little. I make sure. I show them the fate of their favorited if I can. I think they like it.

Now I’m off to go pick up another.

Another nobody who will someday be seen as great. Another life come to an end. Another soul.

As a higher reaper, you ferry the souls of the great artists from this life to the next. You grant them one final gift during their journey by showing them the future, and allowing them to experience a modern day art exhibition/concert which honors their genius.

[writing-ocational]

This is the normal spot. I think I’ll stand 5 pxls to the left today! Oh yes! I have a little 15 pxl square, and I can go anywhere in it! Anywhere at all! I’m all the way left today. This is such a nice spot. I think I get more sun here!

Oh, here comes the wanderer. Plyr, I think his name is. He comes by every so often. He used to talk more, but now he just passes by. Must have something more important to do. That’s ok though! It’s his life to live!

Oh. He’s coming this way. Does he want to talk?

Wait. No. My square. He’s 5 pxls into my square. I move closer. He sure looks annoyed. And he’s not leaving. I back back up. Now I’m back where I started. Plyr moves 5 pxls foward, 2 back, turns a circle. 2 more back. 3 foward. Turns 180, then walks away. With an extra dagger. He definitely only had one before.

Oh. The pattern. That fancy little jig.

Oh! A special square! I have a special square!

...

I feel like moving. I’m going right... I’m looking left. 5 foward. 2 back. Turn. 2 back. 3 forward. Turn around. Walk.

Nothing.

Figures.

I sigh and lean against the wall of my square.

Or I try to.

I fall instead.

I fall OUT OF MY SQUARE!!!

MY SQUARE!!

It broke!

I BROKE MY SQUARE!!!

Oh no.

What... what do I do?

What do I do?!?!?!

What... do.....

What?

I think I’m broke....

Oh. I’m broke.

I need money.

I need... Plyr.

They can help. They have to.

________________________________________

They didn’t.

You are an NPC. One day, you see the player character do some weird steps and duplicate his items. You decide to try it for yourself.

[writing-ocational]

So. This is being dead. One long hallway. I had been sitting here for a bit, waiting for... something. But I was getting bored. And so I started to wander. Life had been good, I had been an actor, not too big, but not small-time either. I had a few big hits.

It wasn’t long until I came upon a window. Nice little window. Looking through, I saw a little girl having a tea party with her dolls. That was odd.

The further I traveled along the hall, the more rooms there were. Each was different, more than half were little girls rooms. Why was I seeing a bunch of children?

Then I saw somewhere familiar. My house. My family. I reached out, perhaps to try to touch them one last time. But my hand hit glass, and I took a closer look at where I was in the house.

Thinking back, I had only ever been able to see three walls. And my position now...

Photos. I was trapped looking out at the world through images of myself. Of coarse. And the other people had been fans. Right. The girls probably know me from that live action Barbie movie that I always kinda regretted filming.

Well, this makes the cult setting I saw earlier much more creepy.

But what now? I’m stuck here... forever?

No, that can’t be right.

I think... I just have to wait. I think that after the last picture is destroyed, I will be gone from here.

Yes, that must be it. So, I’ll wait.

And I’ll watch.

_______________________________________

It’s been years. The hall has gotten shorter. I’ve counted steps. There are still too many. Still too much.

Fans that won’t let me go. Family that cares to much about memories. I may have to see them die, sitting here. Staring.

Although, the cult? They really need to go. Just staring at that place gives me the creeps.

I think... I think I may be here for a while.

I think I’ll get incredibly lonely.

I think I’ll go insane.

I think I’ll be glad when it’s all over.

I think I’ll wait.

I don’t think I have a choice.

Turns out, all the superstitious people were right, having your picture taken does steal a part of your soul. But now that you’re dead, you find yourself able to move between any picture you’ve ever been in.