[signedsentence]

People often say that texting ruined our communication as a species, and I agree. Through the miscommunication and the -that’s not how I meant it- it’s often nothing more than idle chit chat, trying to not be forgotten by people you see less than you would like. I always wreck my brain over the most mundane texts. How to address people properly without sounding weird or how much more pressing my sentence becomes when I actually take the time to add a period on the end. Last weekend I received one of the most worry inducing texts any person in a serious relation can get: “I need to talk with you about something.” Notice the period on the end? With the amazing technology of the internet I was able to receive this text in the middle of the night, when I was minding my own business at home. These texts, they are intrusive, they force themselves into your world without regard to your current engagements. Obviously I started formulating the perfect question in return. I must have gone through hundreds of variations, but all of them wanted to ask: “About what?” These variations went through the whole spectrum of panic, going from ‘slightly worried’ all the way to ‘both of us are dying and you can only save one of us, make a choice’. Finally I settled for the casual ‘sounds serious, when?’ hiding my inner sirens and flashing warning signs. ‘Soon’ she said. Soon is apparently four days in the mind of Meghan. Four very stressful days without answer to the panicked questions I never asked. Actually asking those questions would give away that I am not relaxed about this situation and that is not allowed. Why not? Society, I guess. In mere minutes I would get my answers, so no use thinking about things in the past. My knocks acknowledged by the slow turning of the lock from the inside of Meghan’s apartment. Her mouth pressed slightly upward as if trying to force a smile without putting the actual work in. In silence I step into the familiar hallway and follow her to the couch. I never paid much attention to were I sat down in her house, I figure she would take her favorite spot and I got free choice out of the sub-optimal seating. Today is different, as with the text I felt like my seat of choice would make or break this conversation. Next to her on the couch would mean I could easily hold her hand or shoulder when she needs support. The chair would make for a formal conversation, putting us right opposite each other. I could even be bold and grab a chair from the kitchen, giving me even more freedom. I take a seat next to her on the couch. This is the part I hate the most. She asks me how my week has been and I lie, I tell her it’s been fine. I tell a story from my work, there is that weak attempt at a smile again. I return the question to which she responds with ‘yeah fine’. Silence. We both know why we are here, You even more so than me. “We need to talk”, she states as if it hasn’t been the main thing on my mind for the past week, “I’ve been thinking…” My whole world collapsed at that moment. I could have been prepared for a lot, but I could have never prepared myself for what she said after that. However, with the knowledge I have now I do not wish I prepared more, worried more. No I wish I didn’t think about it at all, that I didn’t try to convince myself that I was prepared. I could have never been prepared.

Prompt: “I need to talk with you about something.”

[signedsentence]

‘Have a seat, mister…’ her pause came as a surprise to me and made me stumble on my words. “Mister Faraday” I replied. Up until this moment the procedure had been standard: reply to the ad, get invited for an interview and wait for several hours in a brightly lit room with all the other interviewees. In front of me lies a crudely made resumé with my headshot attached by paperclip. Judging from the folders and briefcases my competitors in the waiting room carried, I was massively underprepared.

The interviewer didn’t introduce herself and I’m too nervous to press her on that. Not that it matters, a big company like the International Investigation Service won’t hire a fresh out of college kid like me. The woman scans through my files before dismissively putting them aside. She looks right at me, making eye contact for a few seconds before I awkwardly look away. “What do you think we do here, mister Faraday?” the question is quick and concise, yet I have no answer. “If you are forming any answer containing the words: ‘outstanding’, ‘top of the art’ or even ‘inspiring’ you can leave right now.” I am glad that my brain wasn’t fast enough to come up with those words in such a short time span. I sat there dumbfounded. She slides a file over and strongly suggest I should read the whole thing before opening my mouth. The page is littered with legalize about swearing secrecy and the hefty fines and/or punishments involved in spreading information about this company. A pretty standard agreement to sign for a company that does investigations, but I’ve never heard of signing one before even starting the interview. Hurriedly I scan the page, feeling the stare of the woman burning. I sign on the bottom of the page and slide the page back while fumbling with the pen cap.

“Great, now I can reveal where you really are.” I expected a smile, but none came. “We aren’t just an investigation service. We offer more than that”, she continued ,“We investigate things out of the ordinary, things the police and military won’t even acknowledge.” I couldn’t put the pieces together, was she talking about spying? Counter intelligence? It all clicked when she showed me around the complex. I didn’t have to answer any questions, I was already hired before I came to that interview, they knew everything about me. She let me deeper into the complex, away from windows and prying eyes. The elevator ride had been the longest and most nerve wrecking ride of my life and when the doors opened a whole new world opened for me. There were hundreds of desks neatly lined in 4 rows with a pathway between them. Behind each desk was a different creature seated. I looked around myself with wonder and fear. The woman that led me down here suddenly stopped, her skin bubbling and stretching. “I hope you don’t mind me getting comfortable” I had no time to answer before she her skin turned a pale color, her nose shrunk, and her arms and legs shortened. She walked up to a podium in front of the rows of desks and with a single cough silenced the whole chamber. “I want you all to meet Mr. Faraday, our first ever Human recruit.” And to you, Faraday “Welcome to the Paranormal Investigation Service”.

Writing Prompt – You work at a Paranormal Investigation agency and need to interview the recruits. Most have history with monsters. You look at this rookie’s file and it’s so extreme you swear it’s a typo.

[signedsentence]

The fight had gone on for mere minutes but for James McElroy it had felt like hours. His whole journey had let to this moment, kneeling above the barely conscious body of Lord Gremmeler, blade in hand. The painful images of every single friend James had seen slain by this monster raced through his mind. His arms swung up high preparing to plunge the shining blade into the chest of his nemesis. Before he could finish the job an arm shot out from under the cloak of the downed villain. A flash of silver and blood started shooting from the wound. James collapsed on the ground. Blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, his eyes a blank stare. A great trick if you ask me. Maybe not the perfect timing for one of those McElroy cons, but great execution non the less. With James on the ground, Gremmeler seized the moment and escaped into the darkness of the forest edge. James’ gaze didn’t falter for a moment, of course he didn’t have to see, he knew where the Lord had disappeared to. James waited for the perfect moment to get up. Any minute now. A lot of blood now pooled around the face of our hero, a convincing illusion to any onlooker. I may not understand his tactics, for he has a tactical mind bigger than any other mortal alive. James seems to have missed his chance to strike from his trap. Lord Gremmeler has escaped many hours ago and James hasn’t moved a muscle since. He has given up, dare I say: he has failed. The Lord will gather up his armies at the many bridges up North and storm the Northlands before spring. Only McElroy could have stopped him, but now there is no more McElroy. No more James McElroy, wielder of the legendary Blade of Whispers. Who will save the people of these lands now? Who will we write stories about? “No! I will not stand for this”, the Narrator yelled, “What kind of story ends with the death of the protagonist?!”. The figure sitting at a corner desk illuminated only by a desk light threw the book he had been engrossed in for hours at a lounge chair in the far corner. “I can do better than this.” He stated, seemingly to no one while pointing roughly in the direction of the book on the ground. Feeling through the dark the Narrator’s hands found his collection of pens on a nearby shelf. Dropping half of them, he managed to find one that worked. On a notepad lined with doodles he started writing: “The fight had gone on for mere minutes but for James McElroy it had felt like hours.” 

Writing Prompt – The main character unexpectedly dies. Panicking, the narrator doesn’t know what to do. Constrained writing – Write a story that starts and ends with the same sentence.

[signedsentence]

Have you ever heard stories of people surviving suicide? People that have a moment of realization before they make the jump, seeing the good things in life or maybe the thought of her smile that made the pain worth living through? That didn’t happen to me. I jumped. I set up a cliché stool to kick away, I hung a rope from the support beams of my apartment and in a wave of desperation and frustration I went through with it. It must have been the longest 10 seconds in my miserable life that it took me to realize it did not work. I lost consciousness fairly quickly, but unlike most people I woke up, still swinging from the rope firmly tied around my neck. I hung around for at least an hour before I gave up on the idea of dying and reached for my phone. Don’t know why I had it on me, automatism I guess. Looking through my contacts every name burning with memories. I didn’t want anyone in this list to find me like this. None of them knew. An idea crept up into my disturbed mind, what if I called the suicide hotline? A few seconds on a vague Wi-Fi network got me the number and I dialled. A friendly voice responded, this is when it hit me: I didn’t have much of a voice left. Pulling myself up with one hand, the rope and ceiling creaking under my weight. “yes… Yes, it didn’t work.” I just threw it out there. Which the friendly voice responded to with utmost precision and know-how “Can you tell me what you did?”. His attitude changed rather dramatically when I told him I failed at hanging myself. “Excuse me? You hung yourself two hours ago? And you are still here talking to me?” A silence followed which was broken by a different voice “Sir, this is a serious hotline, your pranks are not appreciated.” I tried to reason with the new voice, but without use.

I think it has been five days now, I’ve learned that I don’t have to eat. I don’t even feel hunger. I live on the fourth floor of an apartment building in the ghetto. My rent gets paid automatically and if I remember correctly there is enough money on that account to keep my landlord away for at least three more months. I quit my job a week ago, have absolutely no friends that would wonder what happened to me when they didn’t hear from me for weeks. Basically I am fucked.

It has been four months. I was wrong. I regret everything.

You tried to commit suicide, but as it turns out you are immortal. Now you have to call someone to help you cut the rope. Awkward.

[signedsentence]

“Honey?” the voice of my wife pierces my concentration, “Are you still working?” Yes, yes I’m still working. This is impossible. “Yeah…” I respond vaguely absentminded in an attempt to be left alone. Her hands on my shoulders showed that my approach failed. Quickly I turn away my laptop, only resulting in more curiosity. “Aww, come on. You never let me see what you’re working on!” she added in a slightly childish nagging tone. I respond sternly, like I always do with “That’s because it is better.” This normally shuts her up, today no different. With her plans foiled and her drooping off to the kitchen I open my skype again. The screen fills with a familiar face, my boss. In a deep, dark voice he repeats my assignment. It booms through my headphones: “Your assignment is for Jody Geary, I have sent you all the needed information…” I can hear the voice speaking, but I have already zoned out. That name, it’s too familiar. It’s my wife’s. “I can’t” I blur out without regard for the still talking voice. Silence. “You must!” the voice felt deeper, grittier, more evil and angry. “You must and you will.” Now filled with a more soothing tone, which made me feel more uncomfortable than the anger from before. Against my will I opened the file containing everything I needed to make Jody, my loving wife regret ever being born.

The following weeks I wrote, drew and pictured my wife in ways I would have never wanted to imagine her. I know she is going to die soon, He told me. Knowing what will happen to her, what will happen to her by MY hand makes me feel nauseous, but it’s my job. I have to do this.

The deadline is today so I opened up skype, He is online. He is always online, waiting. I called him, there I heard His terrifying voice again which I even after 5 years of work never seemed to be able to get used to. My throat feels dry and my eyes are watering, but I must persist. “I have nothing.” I can’t get out more than that, I swallow. “Not for her, not my Jody.” A smile appears on His face. “Good” he says. Good? GOOD?! Apparently my puzzled expression gave Him enough reason to explain. “I’m not evil, John.” Yeah sure. “I’m merely a judge, an arbiter you could say. Morality is complicated, there are many rights and wrongs. Even some you might not see as such.” He looks right at me. “So John, I build a test. A personal challenge to determine whether you are good, or evil.” My puzzled look slowly fades as the pieces land in their place. “You have served me well, but everything ends. John you succeeded in your test. You drew a line, knowing the risks you stood with your own definition of morality. You’ll end up somewhere nice, I promise.” As His last words lingered in my head a pop-up appeared: “Satan has logged off.”

You work for Satan, designing a Hell unique to every damned soul. Today, you are tasked with building hell for your significant other. /u/limeburst2

[signedsentence]

The sun shines through the blinds in the 4th floor apartment in the north of London. Rachel is getting ready for her work when the phone rings. “Rachel! You’re not going to believe this!” an excited voice greeted her “John called in sick today, you’re going to have to go to HQ to replace him.” Rachel sighed, that’s a four hour flight. “Oh yes! I’ll be on the airport in half an hour, this could be my break!” Rachel didn’t believe the words she uttered, but that didn’t matter. The calm morning she had planned sifting through paperwork just got traded in for a flight and the rest of the day being yelled at by higher-ups in the small hope of being recognised as a valuable member of the workforce and getting that promotion that John had been dangling above her head for two years now. No time for breakfast, Rachel poured herself a glass of milk instead. With a glass of milk in one hand and a mascara brush in the other Rachel tried to finish her morning routine, only ending up spilling the milk all over her pants. “I don’t have time for this!” she growled. She grabbed a pair of pants hanging over the back of a chair. This will have to do she thought as she whipped off the old pair and slapped on the new with breath-taking speed.

She hated the airport, she wasn’t afraid of flying, but she had always disliked the ‘modern’ architecture and seemingly cheery travellers. As with every flight Rachel had to go through the pre-flight pat down. A young gentleman motioned for her to spread her arms as he greedily fondled her every curve. Rachel wanted to say something, but quickly bit her tongue when she noticed the time. “Could you step out of the line, please?” hit like a slap in the face, Rachel responded with a disgruntled facial expression but followed the orders of a guy half her age. “Is this really necessary?” She asked. “What do you have in your left front pocket, ma’am?” The guy didn’t respond to her question. Rachel didn’t know, she never kept anything in there, but now that he mentioned it she did indeed feel something in there. Slowly she punt her hand in her pocket, feeling the touch of cold steel she hesitated. “Oh” Rachel looked at her hand, where she held a pair of scissors. She suddenly remembered putting them in her pocket yesterday. The agent told Rachel to follow him after he had taken the scissors and confirmed with his colleague. After ton of questions about the intend of her flight Rachel eventually got to her seat on the plane. She could finally relax as the plane took off, no more delays.

About two and a half hour into the flight, Rachel’s relaxation is disturbed. A man begins shouting in the front of the plane, something about ‘the system’ and ‘faulty security’. After several failed attempts from cabin crew to calm the man down he is escorted to the back of the plane. When he passed Rachel, she immediately recognised him as the man standing behind her in line when she found the scissors. The following 2 minutes, it couldn’t have been more than that, pass very slowly.

“Every channel is broadcasting it, it’s a tragedy.” Two people are discussing recent events in a coffee shop. “They say it could’ve happened because agents have wrong priorities or because not all personnel is trained to spot threats.” One of them comments. “They made a mistake, No use crying over spilled milk.”

A butterfly effect begins with spilt milk, and leads to a plane crash. /u/Acer_Scout

[signedsentence]

Tell a love story, including a plant, in 5 sentences. /u/gabrielatkd

“Every girl loves flowers” they tell you.

I gave her roses, violets and lilies.

She laughed and called it cliché.

He gave her roses, violets and lilies.

“Every girl loves flowers” they say. 

[signedsentence]

Whenever your main character tries to do something, roll for it. /u/equalsnil ~I will roll a 6-sided die to determine how well an action goes.~

[1] being an extreme fail and [6] being an overshot, or succeeding too much.

Mark woke up to the sound of his alarm clock ringing, that awful song that came preloaded always pushed him to get up. [5] Reaching over with pinpoint precision landed his hand right on the ‘off’ button. He rubbed his eyes and got up. As he stood before the closet staring into the vast amount of clothes wondering what he would wear today it came over him: [1] He would wear nothing at all. Strolling out covered in nothing more than chest hair and crisp crumbs from a midnight snack Mark went into the kitchen to get himself that important morning breakfast. Quite in the mood for something a bit more daring than the two slices of bread he normally pushes in the decision is made to prepare some bacon. [2] After braving the hot grease splashing through the kitchen the two barely eatable pieces of pig hardly seem worth the effort.

Doesn’t matter, Mark has to catch the bus. As his morning routine is quite stable he knows that he has exactly 5 minutes to catch his bus and still make his class. [5] well in time the young (naked) man catches his bus, greeted by a lot of surprised faces due to his clothing style Mark decides it is best to grab a paper and sit at the back.

Having survived the awfully awkward bus trip he waltzes over to his classroom. Today’s lecture will be about ‘breaking social norms’ informs a bulletin pinned to the door. Mark quietly makes his way past the mumbling students and takes his seat at the back of the class. Having dozed off he awakens to the prompt of his professor to make his way to the front and explain what made him decide not to dress today. [5] With a confident stride Mark makes his way towards the podium. [2] His confidence is quickly depleted as Mark decides to direct his attention not towards the oncoming stairs but the good looking coeds in row 3 resulting in him tripping over the first step. [3] Luckily he catches his fall and takes his place at the podium. “Could you tell me, mister…” The professor pauses waiting for Mark to fill him in ,[2] but Mark fails to see the intention and continues on smiling in his complete glory. The professor continues on promting Mark again to explain why he has decided to go ‘naturist’ today. [6] To which Mark responds, even to his own amazement: “We are mere creations in someones mind, someone is making up our lives as we go along. I did not exist before today, let alone have any intentions or reasons to not dress today. It is all decided by a roll of the die.” While this to Mark seems a reasonable explanation, the crowd seems to be confused. The professor gestures toward the door. Clearly done with the insanity this student has brought with him today.

Mark, obviously befuddled but slightly delighted by the sudden turn of events decides to spent his now free afternoon in the park, after having had a quick stop at a clothing store. In the park a young girl asked him for a push on the swings, being the swell guy he is he agrees. [1] Sweat drips from the tense forehead of a man who has put his whole weight and strength into a push only to meet an immoveable object. No matter how much he struggles, no matter how many times he tries. The swing does not move. Defeated he says goodbye and takes a seat at the pond. Feeding the ducks always brings a smile to his face, so why not today? The crumbs from his lunch, a sandwich filled with pretty much every topping at the store in his hand he waits for the ducks to come close. [6] Whether it is the taste of the bread, the weather or his own bird feeding skills Mark will never know, but the pond –and the surrounding 5 blocks- were filled with ducks, pigeons, crows, eagles and ostriches all wanting a piece of the action.

It took the riot police, animal control and an army of 400 volunteers to get the streets clear of birds an bird crap, but Mark had made his way home. “What a day” He says to himself before dropping his new clothes and heading to bed. [3] All is well and Mark soon dozes off to dream of new adventures.

[signedsentence]

On the day you turn 18 everyone is given the first words that their soulmate will speak to them. When you receive yours it says simply "Welcome to Starbucks. Can I take your order?". /u/syrupie

I never really was a fan of coffee, still am not. But I’ve started going to Starbucks more and more since my 18th birthday. I hear it almost every day now: “Welcome to Starbucks. Can I take your order?”, it hunts my dreams. When I’m standing in line I judge the barista and one of two things happens either I stay in line and hope that today is the day that that line seals my fate or I pretend I have to be somewhere else. I always order the same: a tall fresh coffee in a paper cup. Why? Because it is the cheapest item on the menu and I’m not going to throw away a mug. I think the amount of money I have spent on this obsession is over the hundreds, but that is what soulmates are for, right?

The destiny sentences are always a good opening line, often you can spend quite some time discussing the possibilities in which you could hear them. Standing in line waiting for my daily coffee I start making small talk with the rest of the cue. The subject of soul mates comes up and we discuss the classic lines as “Hey, aren’t you…” and the hilariously weird ones that can’t be logically placed in any social context. One of my fellow customers pointed out that both me and a girl that had been listening in on the conversation, but hadn’t said a word owed the rest of the group our sentence. He we should say ours on 3. We locked eyes, exchanged a look of agreement and got ready.

1…

2…

 3…

“Welcome to Starbucks. Can I take your order?”

[signedsentence]

“Dear Sir or Madame,

You have received this letter as part of the procedure for a Planned Murder Application, below you will find the form and the approval slip from your local state or country. If you are not the addressed target, please contact the local authorities as fast as possible.”

I stared at the bright red envelope and the words I had just read. Ever since that law was passed I’ve been fearing this moment. I ripped open the seal that stuck the form closed and it folded outward. In bold letters it stated: I hereby declare I plan on murdering Jason Red Brenn. My eyes started to water but I continued on reading past the personal description.

“The intention to murder Mr. Brenn has been going around my head for quite some time now, several occasions have presented itself in which I could have proceeded with the act and I have decided I want to act upon this. It has come to my knowledge that Mr. Brenn has both a wife and children, I will supply his family with the sum of fifty thousand (50.000) dollars after the act has been completed in compensation to their loss.”

I stop to look at my two children playing outside in the sun, happy in their ignorance.

“My motivation for the termination of Mr. Brenn is simple; he has become a nuisance to me and my family. Over the course of five years I have found him in bed with both my wife and daughter and has he caused over half a million in property damage to my house and office. Upon confronting him with his actions he has threatened and followed through on sending a Red Letter, I write this out of self-preservation and to stop this ongoing parade of macho behaviour displayed by Mr. Brenn.”

My breath stopped, but the tears did not.

“Following protocol I have formulated a plan that is safe for all those involved (excluding Mr. Brenn) and that limits the damage done to personal and government property. The act will be completed by a professional who has assured me he will cause no scene and or damage. I hope to have hereby sufficiently informed you of my intentions and I shall await approval with the utmost patience.”

It was not signed, apparently that is not necessary. On the back of the letter was a small piece of paper with the signature of our president, and a stamp in bright green ink saying ‘Approved’.

I must have been crying for hours because the tears have ran out and I’m just sitting here at the dinner table breathing heavily. The kids have gone to play at a friend, I can’t remember which one. I stand up to fresh up my face in the bathroom when I hear the door opening. “Hey! Anyone home!?” I hear him say as I stand there with the red envelope. “Jason, we have to talk.”

  You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork and your proposed victim will be notified of your intentions. /u/PhotoshopJunkie

[signedsentence]

Today is the twenty seventh of January, the year is two thousand and fifteen. Each year is the same, people stumble into the new year with the delusion that this time around will be different. The promises full of good spirit “This year I’ll lose those pounds”, “this year I’ll lose those debts” and my favorite “This year I’ll be a better person” are uttered by those naive individuals, thinking they can change a major aspect of their lives because the calender gets reset. Me? I've stopped coming up with resolutions years ago, never have I regretted that as much as I do now.

Since the first of January things have changed in the world. The news is filled with stories about complete countries dropping the cigarettes and flocking towards gyms and organic food stores. At first I thought it was just the new years craze, that it would all be normal again after a week or two, but I was wrong. Things are different. There is no rebound, people stuck. For about 4 weeks now I've witnessed people close to me asking out their crushes, dropping their alcohol and switching to drinking water.

I curse my cynicism as I see everyone's dreams come true and I’m sitting here wondering why I stopped making resolutions and started to actually work on the things I wanted to achieve.

Everyone achieves their New Year's resolutions this year. suggested by /u/Taub-NUT