Ex-Raid: A PokemonGo Story

Months ago (shut up, at least I'm finally getting around to cleaning out my notebook of unfinished or just untyped stories) I received an Ex-Raid pass. At first, I thought it was just a special raid pass that could be used multiple times or maybe I would get more experience per raid, which made me feel stupid because at the time I'd just bought a bunch of raid passes. After looking it up online, turns out these are the passes you need to do the Mewtwo raid! So that's exciting! Right? or am I just the only person left who plays? Typically, most of my raid battling consists of the low 1 or 2 level raids that I can solo and only a handful of times have I even gotten around to doing the the Legendary Raids (and even then, I've only got 2 of them, and unfortunately none of the birds).

Anyway, the pass is only good at a specified date and time and gym. So after work, I raced to the spot unsure about what I'd find. I mean, I rarely encounter anyone when I'm playing, what are the chances a bunch of people are going to get together to play Pokemon? So I managed to get there with just 10 minutes or so to spare until the raid starts - and there was already a bunch of people waiting around. There was also a Legendary Egg at the gym which confused the shit out of me. Why would there be a Legendary Raid at the same time as this supposedly exclusive raid is going to happen? That question was quickly answered when a couple people walked over, phones in hand, to ask if there was a raid going on, and why they couldn't see it in their games. So, turns out that you can only see the Ex-Raid if you've gotten the Ex-Raid pass ... and those other people left, disappointed.

The group of people waiting around turned out to look kind of like me: all of them around the same age in clothes that suggested they all might've come straight from work, too. Most people there had never done a Mewtwo raid yet, so I didn't feel that stupid not knowing just how strong it was supposed to be. A few people had already done the raid before, though I didn't hear if anyone had actually caught one yet. And, as always, there was already a guy trying to lead the group, talking about what types of pokemon would be good to use, how we should split ourselves in case there was too many to fit into one lobby, etc. "If the group is too large for all of us to fit in the lobby, we should just split between Mystic and Valor," he said. Then he turned to me, the newest arrival, and asked on which team I played. "Instinct," I replied. "Oh," was all he said before turning to someone else. And now, in my head, I'm just thinking, Oh, well fuck you too then asshole. Instinct's a strong team too, even though we do a bunch of dumb stuff

Like the All Eevee Gym

The Flintstone Gym (Because of the prehistoric pokemon, and the Croconaw looks like it's wearing a loincloth)

Or, how we couldn't even put together an all Yellow pokemon gym

this annoyed me more than Pokemon should annoy a grown adult

 Ummm, okay, so we're not that serious...

Well, before I got to the raid, I asked my co-worker what would be some good pokemon to use, which he recommended Dark, Ghost, and Bug type pokemon. Actually, what he recommended were pokemon I didn't have: "Use your Tyranitar if it's got good Dark attacks." "I don't have a Tyranitar."; "A strong Gengar?" "Mine is weak."; "A Pinsir?" "Dumped it awhile back." He also recommended a bunch of Legendary pokemon which I failed to catch when they were available. Well, what I did have were a bunch of pokemon with at least one Dark attack

at least my Gyarados and Granbull have 2 dark attacks

If you've done at least one raid before you know how this next part goes. And so, strength in numbers prevailed (I think we had enough to fill up the 20 person lobby limit) and we defeated the Mewtwo! Then came the real challenge: catching it. I'm dumping every golden raspberry I can, trying to use the spin technique, someone even told me that if you tap the screen as the pokeball shakes, it's supposed to up your odds of the pokeball staying closed, any trick I can to keep it in the ball. As I'm throwing, I hear someone say, "Wow, first throw." Well, keep it to yourself, asshole! I shout in my head as I toss another pokeball just to watch it burst out at the first shake. Well, eventually, I just ran out of pokeballs and I failed. So, goodbye Mewtwo. Just another waiting game until I can get another one of specialty raid passes, I guess.

Rapture Chronicles: Why do you persist?

Seven days. Seven days it took me to reach the top of the mountain. Seven days since the entire world was told that it was all going to end. They say that on the seventh day of Genesis, God rested. Unfortunately, on the seventh day of the Rapture, today, God will strike us down. As I climbed over the edge of the cliff, I was blinded on all sides by not only the natural radiance of the angels awaiting for my arrival, but the shine of their golden armor, as well as their spears and swords sharp enough to sever Demonflesh - all of which were pointing directly at me. Though, to be honest, I couldn't blame them for the hostility after the adventure I had getting up here, and the surprising number of their dead that lay at my feet, dead by my hand.

As slowly as I could, I unslung my rifle and tossed it over the side of the cliff. Then I unholstered my pistol and tossed it away, too. After climbing for two days, I wasn't sure if I would even hear either of them fall to the ground below, but I listened anyway. Sadly, no sound, or at least none that I could hear over the howl of the wind. Finally, I took off my jacket and lay it upon the dirt, the best blanket I could manage before placing the unsheathed sword upon it. A weapon taken from one of their fallen brethren, I figured it would be polite to return it. After all, this was the end.

An angel approached, four pure-white wings spread wide, spear in hand, golden armor glistening upon it's chiseled features. Immediately, I felt a warmth spread over me, driving away the cold. His face, however, was that of pure disdain, sending a chill down my spine. Before he could speak, I raised my arms. "I've come to negotiate on behalf of humanity. For our survival," I added, though that should've been obvious.

The angel turned to face the crowd and nodded. As if on cue, a single angel in the mass sheathed it's sword and took off, flying away toward the shining palace, The Kingdom come to Earth. Then the angel turned his gaze back to me. "You, mortal, will proceed no further," the angel said as he moved his spear to bar the path. The remaining army of angels enclosed on me, weapons still at the ready, as if it were actually possible for all of them to attack at once.

I shrugged my shoulders and sat on the ground, hands in my lap. An audience was all I wanted, and if this was as close as I was going to get, then so be it. I really couldn't blame them for their suspicions though: from their point of view, a mere human advancing this far at the height of the Apocalypse, the Rapture, Ragnarok, whatever word you had for the end of times, well I, too, would suspect that creature must be special, must be powerful, must be dangerous. And maybe, in today's times when God and the divinity has turned against us, maybe that quality was something that made me the most likely to survive - that I still had faith.

With nothing else to do, I thought about how I got here. I'd first set off on my own, thinking that it all had to be a mistake, that there's no way that God would order the destruction of his favored children. So I set off on my own, guided by faith. Along the way, others joined along and soon enough, I had a following of a dozen people: people enraged by what was happening and looking for revenge against The Divine; some hoping to rescue their family members from rapture; a couple who thought they were prepared enough to survive Armageddon; and one other who just needed to do something that would matter in the face of their inevitable destruction - all of them with their own reasons but none of them like my own. In the beginning I tried to discourage them, to turn them away, but still they followed. Before getting to the mountain, we didn't lose anyone: not to the random pits opening in the ground, swallowing buildings whole; not to the red lightning which stalked us like a predator from dark clouds before striking in random intervals; not to the True Believers, zealots who welcomed the end of days with open arms, seeking to redeem themselves by spilling the blood of "heretics", which to them meant less about faith and more about attacking those who were not as well armed as themselves.

"Thremmiskes' sword," said the angel, holding the sword I'd placed on the ground. "Where did you acquire it?"

I stared at the sword, then turned to the angel. "I won it."

The angel just stared at me, as if trying to decipher if I was lying or not, before just nodding and placing the sword back onto my jacket. "So it is yours," was all he said.

When my group finally got to the foot of the mountain though, we ran into ... something, something more monster than man. We riddled its body with bullets but still it advanced on us, speaking in tongues, saying that it was possessed by God's Will, by an angel. In the end, we managed to blow off its legs, losing a friend in the process. Though crippled, it continued to crawl toward us. I managed to get behind it and stab it in the back with the sword it had been swinging. Once the steel pierced flesh, the body glowed for a brief second before going limp. We buried our own and set the other body aflame, afraid that it might rise again. We knew at that moment we were definitely in the right place, where the divine met Earth. We met several more vessels on our way up, each of them angels riding in a possessed human, armed with more strength than should be capable of a normal human. We lost more of our friends to these creatures, but still we marched on. It was the only thing we could do.

"Tell me, human," said the angel, again breaking me away from my memories, "how were you able to kill so many of my kin, to take the life of a being superior to your own?"

I thought for a while, thinking about how those monsters killed my people. How was I still the one to survive? "I don't know. I just believed that what I was doing was right, and my faith would guide and protect me." I paused before adding, "As for the superior beings part, well, technically we're both creations of God, your kind imbued with the power of the divine but forced to serve, us with free will but no power of our own. Two branches of the same tree, if you ask me. Brothers even." I paused for a couple minutes. "Plus," I said, "we had some help."

On the last day, the day before I scaled the cliff alone, we fought an angel. Being that close to the point where Heaven met Earth, that close to the end of times, they were finally able to fully manifest themselves fully rather than force their will into human hosts. They were beautiful, strong, fast, powerful. We couldn't win, wouldn't survive. Almost immediately, Nancy and Tom were dead, and Luke and I were on the run. Mid-stride, Luke stopped and began convulsing, falling to all fours. I swear I didn't know he carried it in him, though I really should have guessed after all of those "lucky breaks" in our travels when he survived close calls which would've meant a dirt nap for anyone else. Because, technically, he didn't survive them. "Run" were his last words to me, then he spewed forth the darkest sludge I'd ever seen, gallons and gallons of the stuff, more than what should fit inside a human body. Then he slumped over, his body no longer alive but the used shell it had been for a past couple days. Quickly, the liquid began to form and harden, taking shape and growing limbs, horns, a tail, claws. A demon brought to our plane of existence using the same tear in reality which allowed the angels to manifest. It turned to face our pursuers and launched itself at them in a frenzy. I'm not sure if it actually managed to kill any of them as I was already heading in the other direction, determined to make it to the top.

"Human," the angel said, "tell me, why does your kind fight a war it cannot hope to win? Why do you struggle? Why do you persist? Your maker has deemed now as your time to end, for the best of you to be welcomed through the Gates, yourself included, why do you fight?"

I looked to the angel in his armor, at the entire horde of angels with their weapons. I just shrugged my shoulders. "That's the reason I came, on behalf of all of us. I'm afraid of dying. We're afraid to die. This isn't about getting revenge or justice for the ones I've lost, or fighting because it's all I have left, trying to save the ones who've been welcomed into Heaven, or struggling to keep myself from the punishments of the Pit. I really, truly just don't want to die. Terrified. After all, we were granted the gift of life and the freedom to choose. Why should that be taken from us for a reason we don't understand, without our consent?"

From the direction the other angel had flown to, there came a brilliant flash. The angel nodded and turned his back to me, as if my message had been delivered. The army of angels lowered their weapons and parted allowing me a narrow path back down the mountain from where I'd come. And so I stood and walked away. It seems anti-climactic, but what else could I hope to accomplish in the face of the Divine? Should I have tried to beg and plead louder until I knew my one voice would be heard, until I got the answer I wanted, or an answer at all? Did I really stand a chance fighting with mere force and will? We'll just have to wait to see what tomorrow brings.



A while back there was a huge influx of "God/s return to destroy humanity" type prompts on Reddit which prompted a bunch of these "Fuck you, humans are the greatest" type responses (I think someone's story ended nuking Heaven). Anyways, they got me back to thinking of this set of stories I was working on years and years ago: The Rapture Chronicles (see tag for the other 2 related stories). Originally, all the stories were supposed to be from multiple points of view with each character telling their story as journal entries (kind of like the epistolary style of "Dear Mr. Henshaw" though not letters, so maybe not like "Dear Mr. Henshaw" at all ... I really liked that book). Anyways, I got lazy so I didn't write a response to any of those prompts, but I decided to finish up at least the central character to those stories (I don't even remember what his name was supposed to be). Actually, as long as I don't get lazy again, there will probably be a bunch of posts in the next coming weeks as I finished up a notebook recently, and, like with most of my notebooks, there's a bunch of unfinished work/ just stuff I never got around to typing out. Anyways, I'll try to go through all of it.

Books of 2017: Quarter 4

Finally, to finish up last year's reading list, here's a quick review of the 4 books I managed to get through in the last 3 months of the year (spoilers):

The Wheel of Osheim by Mark Lawrence

"The Wheel of Osheim" is the third book of Mark Lawrence's "Red Queen's War" trilogy (I think earlier in the year I wrote about book two, "The Liar's Key"). The story takes place within the same Broken Empire as his previous trilogy: a world that reads like typical "sword and sorcery" genre but is actually post-apocalyptic as the civilization that came before broke the world with their creation of "magic" and sending civilization back to the Dark Ages. In the final part of the trilogy, Prince Jalan Kendeth and Snorri ver Snagason, having retrieved Loki's Key and escaped Hell, must make their way to the Wheel of Osheim, the source of magic, and stop it from turning or risk the entire world coming to an end.

What I most enjoy about Lawrence's writing style is that while it could fall into the typical High Fantasy genre, he doesn't get as bogged down in description and world building as most of the others in his field. The story flows quickly from place to place, spending just enough time on the detail for you to get an idea of what the area might look like before jumping into the action.




Urban Enemies (Anthology)

"Urban Enemies" is an anthology of short stories from a bunch of different urban fantasy writers starring the antagonists ("Bad Guys") of those series. And since one of those featured writers was Jim Butcher (starring Gentleman John Marcone, no less!), I was definitely going to buy it. As with most collections of this sort, there's always going to be stories I like more than others, and stories that I disliked entirely, and even more in the middle. As I always say when buying collections, there's no way you're going to like every single story, so I at least tend to make sure there's at least one or two writer's who I like enough to justify spending the money (for this one, almost twice what I would normally pay for a regular paperback). The main appeal of this particular collection was getting stories in which the main characters were not good guys, in fact, in the context of their particular series they are the enemies of the protagonists. If you're familiar with a book series, seeing the world as a known enemy can provide an interesting point of view, and if the series is new, well, at least you get a story featuring a protagonist with a completely different set of values and motivations than you're used to reading about.

While some writer's used this opportunity to provide more back story and insight into their villains, my favorites (being unfamiliar with most of the series featured in this book) were the ones that told standalone stories from the point of view of these villains. Some of my favorites include:

"Even Hand" by Jim Butcher. Starring "Gentleman" John Marcone, a notorious gangster in a world of supernatural creatures, Marcone is one of Harry Dresden's most formidable adversaries. Throughout the series Marcone is presented as a cunning Chicagoan gangster with rules he ruthlessly enforces. In this story, Marcone protects his turf, and one of Dresden's allies, from an attack by the Fomor, creatures that have risen from the ocean to prey on humanity.

"Balance" by Sean McGuire. Being unfamiliar with the world inhabited by monsters and men, I enjoyed this story as I didn't need to know much besides that to jump right into the story. The story is told from the point of view of a Cuckoo, a race of psychic creatures which implant themselves into their victims memories and prey off of them until it is time to discard their target for greener pastures. For this cuckoo though, on this one particular day of self-amusement, a former victim returns to wreck his plans.

"Alter Boy" by Jonathan Maberry. From the synopsis, the main story is usually focused upon a special ops team tasked with taking down terrorists with futuristic technology (more in the realm of sci-fi). In this story though, the main character is one of the series "reformed villains," Toys and his encounter with temptation back to the man he used to be.


The Internet is a Playground by David Thorne

First off, thanks to Kristian for the recommendation, this is one of the funniest things I've read in a long time. Probably not since reading "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell" have I needed to stifle a laugh when reading in public. In true Internet fashion, "the one who cares less is the winner," Thorne taunts co-workers, lawyers, teachers, and the police in email transcripts. The Email transcripts are pretty straight forward, someone will contact him by email on a subject that seems to annoy him, and he will respond with an even more ridiculous fashion, always taking things one step further and further. Some of my favorites include: 1) Informing a teacher that he authorizes the use of physical punishment against his child after he is informed that his child will no longer be allowed to use the school computers; 2) After being harassed for tardiness, creating an unbelievable story about why he was late; 3) After receiving an email from the Australian police regarding a humorous post he wrote soliciting drugs requesting that he take down the story or amend it (while still acknowledging that they understand it is all a joke), he makes the necessary changes a minute before their deadline.


A Conjuring of Light by V.E Schwab
 

I was really planning to wait until next year to buy the paperback version but it turns out I couldn't wait, so I ended up breaking down and picking up the last part to Schwab's Shades of Magic trilogy. So far, there's only been one book I've bought the hardcover version for and that was "The Magician's Land" by Lev Grossman. As book 2 of this series ended on a cliffhanger, I really couldn't wait any longer for the next part.

As I covered a lot of the background early last year when I finished "A Gathering of Shadows," I'll try to skip over that stuff. Book three picks up immediately where Book 2's cliffhanger leaves off and the reader is immediately pushed into the danger of magic gone sentient. In the previous books, magic is described as an almost living thing, and each "London" represents that relationship. The harmony of mankind and magic in "Red London" is broken when the creature from "Black London" attacks, magic which consumes and overpowers man. The protagonists set out to find a way to destroy this new monster and save all 4 Londons from its power.

One thing I really liked about Schwab's writing was the constant perspective shifts as the story is told from many different viewpoints. As each character sees the world a little differently, Schwab is able to choose which character acts as the narrator for each section to give the reader the best point of view for the situation. Each section stays true to the character that you could probably figure out who is narrating the section just based on how they see the world and the things they do, the things they react to.

Resurrection

I pressed the barrel hard to the back of his head. I switched the safety off. I pulled back the slide. I cocked back the hammer. Then, I took a breath. The stench of death filled my nostrils as the corpses around us began to enter the first stages of decay. The buzz of millions, maybe billions of flies began to fill the empty air, an unusual quiet for a city of just over a million people.

He laughed. "I was wondering how this would end, old friend?" he said, his arms spread wide, hands empty. On his knees and his back to me, he looked as harmless as a child. I just needed to remember that he was one of the most dangerous men on the planet. Just pull the trigger and be done with it, I thought to myself as my heart pounded with anticipation, that was the plan after all.

I took a glance around the battlefield: buildings destroyed, vehicles burning, and countless dead at our feet - monsters and civilians lying lifeless. They'd struck so quick, so precise, we were completely unprepared. So many heroes fell in the first moments, we had no time to formulate a plan, no time to regroup. Even now, I'm not sure what they were: aliens from another world; monsters from The Dark Beyond; an invading army from an alternate dimension. Whatever they were, I knew there was only one option for us to survive.

"It doesn't have to be this way," he said with his arms still spread, "after all, you're the one that asked for my help." I imagined the murderous smile on his face, not a drop of sweat despite the battle we'd just survived and my gun currently pressed to his head, all while wearing a long black trenchcoat he must've picked off of one of these unfortunate dead. Out of spite, I kicked at the top hat and the wand that lay at my feet. "After all, Saint Lazarus, you're the one that brought me back"

I thought back to that moment, with the world outside turning to hell as the creatures killed everything in their path. Back then, it wasn't silence, but screams that filled the air. Desperate I ran from the battle back to the office, past the reception area, past the meeting rooms, past the rows of desks and cubicles, to the very back of the office. To the mail room. I found Marty cowering behind a cabinet, shaking, though I couldn't tell if it was from fear or from the war just outside.

I stared at the man, nearly fifty years old, hair starting to thin, an old mustard stain on the blue polo shirt he wore untucked, though not from the lack of trying. This was insane, I thought as I started to walk away.

"Blaine, what the hell is going on?" said Marty as I heard him start to move behind me, "and what happened to your clothes?"

Turning, I saw that Marty had pulled himself off the ground and was staring that the holes, rips, and tears in my jacket, shirt, and pants. My clothes in tatters, I walked back to my desk and pulled out my suit from a locked cabinet, the suit of Saint Lazarus, the Immortal Man. "Marty, what if I told you I was a superhero. And what if I told you that out there me and all of the other heroes were fighting an enemy the likes we've never seen before. And what if I told you that you were our last hope?"

Marty stared at me. I could see on his face as his brain tried to process everything I just said and what was going on outside. "Blaine," he said finally, "you're a reporter."

"Yes, Marty," I said as I began to take off the remains of my business clothes and change into my costume, "I'm a reporter. And just like every reporter here at The Daily Post, I'm also a superhero. We're all superheroes. And though no one else wants to admit it, we need your help."

He stared again. "Am I a superhero?" he asked, a faint smile spreading on his face.

Geez, I thought, those psychics sure did a number on you, Marty. "No, Marty you're not a superhero. You're a mistake. My mistake," I said, hanging my head as I said those words. "You were powerful, you were dangerous, but we were friends."

"We are friends," Marty said with a smile. I smiled too, thinking about the years we'd spent at the Post, lunch in the breakroom, beers after work, watching football on the weekends with the boys.

"Yeah, we're friends, Marty," I said, "but a long, long time ago, we weren't. In fact, we were enemies. Mortal enemies. And when I finally caught you, I convinced them to wipe your memory instead of killing you. I said we could change you as long as you didn't remember. But now I need you back. Now we need you back. The thing is, I'm not sure if I can trust you."

"We are friends," Marty said, putting his arm on my shoulder. I shivered as the touch of his hand on my costume brought back memories, old memories. "You can trust me," he said, and looking into his face, I believed I could.

I nodded. "Okay, let's do this," I said and then began the password to unlock the prison our psychics had placed on his mind. Just as I finished the last word though, something smashed through the wall and exploded in our office, sending Marty deeper into the building and me tumbling twenty floors to the pavement.

It took a minute to pull myself back together. The chaos around me now consumed the entire city as just a few heroes remained and the invaders ranks grew ever larger. I picked up as many weapons as I could carry and started to make my way into the carnage when I heard the whistling. I stopped in my tracks, as did a number of the other heroes. The enemy paused too, briefly, confused as to why the enemy they'd been viciously fighting for the past half hour would suddenly be consumed by a fear they'd never seen before.

"It's the Murder Magician!" shouted Eagle-man as he flew as fast as he could out of the city, "Everyone get the fuck out of here, the Murder Magician's back!" And so they all ran: flyers, speedsters, teleporters, some of them even jumped into whatever working vehicles still remained and drove off. The enemy, however, focused their attention on the man striding out of The Daily Post, a man wearing a blue polo shirt with a mustard stain and the biggest smile I'd ever seen.

"It's going to be glorious," was all Marty said as he snapped his fingers and one of the enemy fell to the ground, dead. Pulling a finger out of his nose, he flicked away the booger and another enemy died. He pointed at another, and it died too. He motioned at one of those things hovering in the air, as if he was merely trying to shoo away a pigeon, and it fell out of the sky.

Finally figuring out what was happening, the enemy began their assault, but it was too late. The Murder Magician was back. I watched briefly as he dodged enemy attacks as if he were in his twenties again, his hands and fingers moving like a conductor, directing the demise of his enemies. It wasn't until one the enemy blasts tore a hole in my side that I remembered I was also part of the fight. I healed and launched my own attack, calmly walking amongst their ranks and putting bullets into anything that attacked me. And, as quickly as it had begun, we'd managed to kill them all.

With his back to me, I put one final bullet into Marty's leg, then ran as fast as I could before he could turn. His top hat hit the ground as he fell to his knees. Line of sight and a hand-motion, that's what we had determined his weaknesses to be. If I could control that, then he'd be vulnerable.

"So, was this really the plan?" Marty said, "Wake me up, have me clean up this mess and save the day, then kill me?"

"I can't risk you free again, Magician," I said, "this is the only solution." I looked at the dead and imagined them as the bodies he left in his wake the last time he walked these streets. Thousands dead in a month for no reason other than one man's amusement.

"I could've killed you at anytime, Blaine. I'm trusting you that you'll do the right thing. That we're still friends. But I still can still change my mind."

As if on cue, one of the creatures stirred and began to rise, the bullet I'd put in it not having found a lethal target. Before I could turn my gun on it though, it slumped forward, dead.

"My hands were always just for showmanship," Marty said, standing and turning despite my gun trained on his head. He shrugged off the coat, and I saw the mustard stain on his shirt, the murderous smile gone, replaced by the familiar one that used to laugh at my horrible jokes as we ate lunch together. I saw Marty. I dropped the gun. After all, we're friends.



 So this is something I haven't done in a while, write a story on the fly without any real preparation. As I was going through Reddit Writing Prompts last night, I saw one that caught my attention: "You have a choice. Pull the trigger, or walk away" and just decided to see if I could write a story out without any of the typical planning I do. It's one of the reasons I usually never have a story done on the same day a prompt comes out. Obviously, if you scrolled to the bottom already, you'd see that I cheated as this is based (sort of) in the same universe as "The Sovereignty" superhero universe. I didn't have a healer character (and I wouldn't name him "Saint Lazarus" but I was tired and when I Googled 'resurrection' his was one of the first to pop up), but I did have "The Murder Magician," a supervillain who could kill by just willing a person dead. And yes, I realized later that I'd actually stolen the same from Gerard Way's "Umbrella Academy" comic books (seriously, it took me forever to remember where I'd heard that name before to the point that I almost thought I'd come up with it on my own). As I was busy writing this before I went to sleep, I didn't have a lot of time, so I think the one part I definitely skipped on was the enemy. Without a lot of time, I just tried to pass it off as an enemy as vague as possible and hope no one would notice I provided absolutely no details regarding them. For the most part though, this is kind of how I imagined introducing this character. Letting him live, though, that I hadn't decided upon.

Play Time!

Opportunity knocked and I at least cracked the door open a bit to see what the hell it wanted. But first, I'm assuming you want some context. On days when I have things to do after work, I'll usually end up eating dinner alone someplace, preferably someplace where no one will bother me so I can get some writing done while I eat. It is literally one of the few things in life that I look forward to when I've got free time. One of my favorite spots to do this is the Ala Moana Food Court as there's a lot of seating, a variety of foods, and the constant drone of people talking amongst themselves provides some good background noise. And so, with a philly cheesesteak, fries, coke, and my notebook, I took a seat and started eating and writing as I planned. However, instead of having a short story about the first humans (or at least part of it ... honestly, I wasn't going to get it done until the end of the week anyways), well, instead I've got this chance encounter (disclaimer: definitely not exactly how it happened, but very, very close to what I can remember from last night):

"Hi, you're handwriting is so tiny, I can barely read it," she said as she sat down across from me. A woman wearing a purple sweater with a half-finished Starbucks cup and a smile like she was selling something, or she was trying to flirt with me (I'm still really bad at reading people).

Naturally, I responded with a smile (as people respond better to a smile, plus it's my natural response to unfamiliar situations by mimicking the other person), "Someone told me that I have the handwriting of a serial killer."

Seriously, do you approach someone who writes like this?

"Well, that's not something you hear very often, not what I was expecting," she responded. "Is this a journal that you write down your day-to-day feelings in?"

Still smiling, "Nope, just stories, mostly fantasy stuff" I said while taking a bite of my sandwich. Even if it was a diary, what kind of weirdo keeps a diary out in the open? And who needs to write down their feelings in the middle of a crowded mall?

She asks about what I do for a living. Not wanting to explain my job, and not wanting to be part of this questionable conversation anymore (probably more due to my natural mistrust of other people than the feeling that maybe this is some sort of scam) I tell her I'm a telemarketer. "I sell magazines over the phone." People hate telemarketers, maybe this will get her to leave.

She doesn't leave. "Wow, I didn't know people still bought magazines. With everything on their phones why would they need to buy magazines?"


I finish chewing my sandwich, the bread has started to get soggy at the bottom and falling apart. I'm annoyed. Maybe this is how my old co-worker used to feel when guys approached her at the gym when all she wants to do is work out. "Sometimes magazines will offer special access to online stuff if you buy a yearly subscription." Before she can ask, I add, "Not sure which ones though, I just sell the magazines."

"You must get hung up on a lot?"

I shrug my shoulders, "It gives me time to read."

"Do you work on commission then, if you get hung up on a lot?"

Is she a prostitute? That's the only person I could think of that would ask anyone up front how much money they make? "Yeah, though we do get a slight base pay for getting hung up on a lot." I've also just realized that she didn't take the bait when I mentioned I write Fantasy stories. Every other time I've mentioned it to anyone, they at least ask something about what I'm writing. I'm a little suspicious now.

"Oh, have you had any other jobs besides this one?"


"I worked at an auto shop for a while."

"You must've made good money there?"

Back to money, what is going on? "Not really. More like Mechanic apprentice, one of those 'will train' kind of jobs. I mostly just got in the way."

"Well, you must've gone to school."

"Yeah," I say, pointing to the open notebook that I was clearly writing in before she came over, "English degree."

"Right, you write stories. Are you a good at it? They say the only way to make money is by getting published."

"Not really, but thanks for that."


This goes on for a while, her asking questions, me giving short replies, everything seeming to always go back to money. Finally we get to the point -

"Well, the reason I came over here was about a year ago, I met this group of people and they introduced me to this 28 year old woman who managed to make enough money that she is basically retired now. And she took me under her wing and taught me how to become financially free. And I was wondering if you'd like me to introduce you to her. She's got a house in Kahala, you know where the upper class live."

Well, final-fucking-ly, we've gotten to the point of this scam. And not only that, but a vaguely familiar sounding scam, like I've heard it before, but I'm not quite certain. My imagination quickly runs off several scenarios: 1) This is a scam to steal my money/ pyramid scheme shit; 2) This is a scam to lure me into a mugging; 3) This is a scam to lure me into The Sharing and they're going to drop a Yeerk into my brain (highly improbable, but I read a lot of Animorphs as a kid). "No, that's okay. I'm fine for now," I say, hoping I'm polite enough that she'll realize she's made her pitch and will go away now that I've turned down her offer.

She doesn't go away. Instead she stays to continue to try to sell me on this idea that her prophet can change my life. What this also gives me is an opportunity I have few and far between, the chance to talk without consequence: 1) I don't care who she is; 2) she has no connection to the rest of my life; but, most of all, 3) she can leave whenever she wants, she sat next to me after all, I've no responsibility as a host to make her feel comfortable, this isn't the bus or the train where she can't run away. I'll admit, more than likely a lot of my replies were more nonsensical than witty retorts as I tend to argue the same way I play FPS games: I'm definitely not the sniper, more like the guy that decides to just fill the air with bullets and hope some of them find a target. But I do like to think I got at least a couple good one-liners in there:


Her (H): "Well, she is teaching me about gaining financial freedom to achieve your full potential. Wouldn't you like to live up to your full potential?"
Me (M): She's still trying to get you into The Sharing. Don't go with her. And don't mention Yeerks or she'll know and they'll get you. "I'm okay with striving to be in the middle 2/3 of people."
H: "If you were to achieve your full potential, think of all the good you could do."
M: "Or the terrible things."
H: "You can't do bad things if you're seeking your full potential."
M: I struggle not to blurt out the names Adolf Hitler, Dylan Roof, or Stephen Paddock. "Well, you never know," I say instead.
H: "So you're okay with not trying on the off chance you might hurt someone?"
M: I'm telling you, don't mention Hitler, it's going to take this conversation someplace you don't want it to go, yet. You might scare her away. "It's working so far."
H: "Don't your parents want you to achieve your full potential?"
M: "Don't know, I've never asked."
H: "What do you mean, I'm sure they do."
M: "Like I said, I never asked. Maybe they're happy with having me around to do chores and stuff."

H: "Are you really okay with just being average?"
M: "Yeah, you should try it sometime."
H: She turns slightly, staring off to the side. "No, now that I'm on this path, I can't be average."
M: "Sure you can. It's so easy to go back."
H: "Maybe we could get you a badge, "Average" and you could wear it."
M: "Yeah, a big, red A" really hoping she got the "The Scarlett Letter" reference, though probably not.
H: "Well maybe you're okay with being part of the 98% of other people."
M: "99%"
H: "Well I'm not going to be average."
M: say it, say, "No, you're just going to run a scam on the average people." Say it! No, don't do it or you'll scare her away. I say nothing as I would probably just repeat the "you could try" line. Instead I wait for her to take another angle with her pitch.

H: "You know, I used to be like you, living for the weekend, just to watch a bunch of movies, living vicariously through their lives"
M: "Yeah, now is actually a great time for television, there's so many good shows."
H: "Are you really okay with that, TV is a drug, making you into a zombie."
M: "There's some really good zombie shows on TV too."

H: "You don't want to be that person who wakes up 30, 40, 50 years in the future with just regrets."
M: "You never know, maybe I'll be dead before then."
H: she stares at me, mouth agape as if she's never heard any talk about dying like that.
M: "Seems better than living with all that regret."
H: "But if you do live that long?"
M: "Well, the trick is to just not think about those regrets."
H: "So you're just going to lie to yourself for the rest of your life?"
M: "Now you've got it."
H: "Well, unless you do something about your situation, it's not going to change overnight."
M: "Unless I win the lottery. Oh, except we don't have a lottery here. So I'd have to move to the mainland to win."
H: "You have a better chance of getting struck by lightning than winning the lottery."
M: "So the dead thing is looking more and more like the better option."
H: "That's not what I meant."

Eventually, as all things do, she got fed up and moved along

H: "You know, I can't tell if anything you've been saying is real or not. Is Alan even your real name?"
M: "That's the fun with words. It's what I have a degree in, remember."
H: "Well, words are just words unless you have action behind them."
M: "Yeah, that's why I said this is fun, it's just words."


And then she was gone. I finished up my now cold fries and tried to write more on the story I was originally working on, but couldn't, I was still on a rush from this last conversation, trying to replay it in my head as best as I could, to hold onto it. It isn't often I get a chance to play with words in a setting where I don't give a fuck.
As I drove home, my thoughts went in the opposite direction: Shit, what if she was on the level, what if she really was following a prophet, what if I just turned down Jesus? What if I was a dick to one of Jesus' new apostles? Then I started thinking about Yeerks again and it scared me back to reality. I really wanted to ask if the group she was with was "The Sharing" where they take you in, gain your trust, then put a mind-controlling brain slug in your head. But the first rule when dealing with Body Snatchers is you don't mention Body Snatchers, you know, just in case one of the Body Snatchers overhears and then they can get you.

Also, I told my family this story when I got home and both my sisters also mentioned that they were approached by someone at the mall who gave basically the same story, and apparently I was there at one of those times (though I don't really remember talking to the person). So, I'm not sure if my instincts were right on this one, or just my need to finally be an asshole to a complete stranger got the better of me. Anyways, I'm working on that other story so hopefully sometime next week ... who am I kidding, you don't care, like I said, I'm not that good a writer anyway, but it's still fun with words. And that's how I spent the second day of the New Year.

The Elf Rebellion

Elorshin trudged his way through the harsh snow, centuries of living in the North still doing little to dull the cold that chilled him to the bone. It reminded him of when he and his kin fled their homes, the loss of the forests to the axes and fire of man forcing them further and further north. As they made their exodus, some lucky few were taken in by The Cobbler, The Fudgemaker, and The Red Coat, those lucky few that were still fit to work. The rest were sent away, possibly back to the endless wars that ravished their homelands: The Fourlands, the Woodlands, the Dark World. The Red Coat, a magician of sorts, was rumored to deliver gifts to the human children one mystical night a year, and while his altruism may seem noble, he still worked the elves all year round to craft those gifts.

Flicking the switch, florescent lights poured over The Workshop. In days long past, The Workshop was filled with benches and benches where Elorshin and his elf brethren would slave away crafting toys for the human children. But Industry and Innovation had finally come to the North Pole, and now those same benches were replaced by ugly steel, machines whose ugly chugs and rumbles stabbed at Elorshin's ears. The commodities they produced were filth compared to what an elvish hand could craft, yet mass-production was essential now that man had conquered the globe and now spread amongst the stars. The Red Coat's magic unable to extend past the Earth, a group called The Toy Givers had taken up his mantle, fulfilling the wishes of those children no longer bound to the Earth. So many of them to deliver the toys, but only one elf now needed to work the machines, his
kin were sent off once again to the war-lands they had sought refuge from so many generations ago.

But today was not another day to build toys. Lamenting the loss of his brothers and sisters to the rise of the machines, to the ever-reaching colonization, to the ever-hunger of the humans, Elorshin decided this would be his last day amongst the Toy Givers, and the start of his reunion with his kin. He broke open one of the machines and stole the raw materials from its insides. With his own hands, elvish-hands, Elorshin fashioned himself a pair of sturdy boots and a coat, garments to survive an escape from the ever-winter of the North. After the clothing, he didn't realize he was still building one last gift until the sting was set taut, one last gift to man to remind them of the elves stolen ancestral lands.

Fire, Elorshin thought as he looked around at the machinery rumbling along without a care to his mutiny. It was almost poetic, he thought as he began leaking gasoline from the machines all over The Workshop floor, after all the humans used it to drive us from our homes so it was only right that it be used to drive them from theirs.

As he left the workshop, an inferno beginning to burn behind him, the first sirens went off. Man thought the cold of the North would be enough to snuff out any flame. What they didn't count on was the mixture of man's gasoline and the last of Elorshin's magicks. He had watched the first sparks, coaxed them to life until they were almost like living creatures, jumping from pool to pool of gasoline, spreading and growing and raging.

First came the ravens, the first of the Red Coat's watchers. Their caws drew out the rest of the horde: the Red Coat's wolves, the Toy Givers' reindeer, and finally the Toy Givers and the Red Coat themselves.

"What have you done, you damn elf!" one of the Toy Givers shouted, stepping forward, spear in hand.

Elorshin said nothing, the value of patience instilled into every elf from their birth. Instead he just watched the man approach, watched him ready his spear, watched him strike. Then Elorshin dodged, a step to the side dodged the spear-point. In one motion, he pulled an arrow from his quiver and punched the tip into the man's chest before pulling it out and readying it to be fired from his now unslung bow.

The first barrage of arrows Elorshin focused on the wolves. Hunters by nature, the last thing he wanted was a set of fangs slowing him down long enough for the rest of the pack to descend upon him, or worse, the men. The reindeer he dodged with ease as they barrelled passed him either on the ground or in the air, infused with flight by the Red Coat's magic. Elorshin's natural elf agility made them more of a nuisance than a threat as they charged head-first, typically finding only empty air as Elorshin evaded, occasionally their horns catching the soft flesh of a Toy Giver.

It was the Red Coat and the Toy Givers that Elorshin had the most trouble with, arrow after arrow finding only empty air. At first, he thought it might be due to not having fired a bow after so long, his abilities rusty. Though, he thought, it was impossible for an elf to miss a target this many times, no matter the situation. Eventually he realized it was the Red Coat's magic, the magic to be everywhere and anywhere at once now infused within the men to assist them in avoiding his attacks. He tried instead to predict where they would appear after evading his arrow, but that didn't work as well. When he guessed one would appear on his left, instead he appeared on the right. When he predicted one would appear behind him, instead they were right next to him, ready to strike with their spears.

Arrow after arrow fired and none of them finding their marks, every missed arrow fired gave the men one more opening to attack with their spears. Cut after cut, stab after stab, slowly they wore him down, his elfin agility no longer able to keep pace with the Red Coat's magic. Then came the last, the Red Coat in the end piercing his spear through Elorshin's chest and driving it out his back. Quick and sudden, combined with Elorshin's exhaustion, the elf fell to his knees without so much as a complaint, then onto his front, though never letting go of his bow. The Red Coat, without fear, turned his back to his opponent.

"What's the damage?" asked the Red Coat to one of the Toy Givers as Elorshin bled into the snow.

"The entire Workshop is gone," replied the other man as they stared into the flames now engulfing the building, "We still haven't completed the gifts for three of the space stations at this point with just a day left until delivery."

The two men stood in silence for a moment as Elorshin took the last of his breaths. The Red Coat snapped his fingers, "Find those elves, the ones we sold off as conscripts to the slaver heading back toward The Woodlands. Tell him we will buy them back."

With his last dying breath and hearing the Red Coat's words, Elorshin once again imagined the sounds and songs of this brethren at work released from the fear of war and battle, and he smiled as he drifted away.



Once again taken from Reddit/Writing Prompts: "We always thought that it was Santa and the Elves but what if it was The Elf and Santas?".  This actually went a long way off from where I originally started, though I'm still pretty sure it went a lot better than it could have. One of the biggest differences was that in the original, the Red Coat died (no idea of the cause, just that he was gone) which would allow Elorshin to kill all of the Toy Givers and then take the sleigh to find his family. I did have some fun trying to remember in the books I've read and the places the elves live (Fourlands from Shannara, Woodlands from Lord of the Ring, and The Dark World from Thor 2). Plus came thinking about elf enslavement, cobbling shoes, making cookies, building toys. And the idea of having Ravens and Wolves, well since it's Christmas time, a lot of the prompts and stories on Reddit dealt with the connection between Santa Claus and Odin, which I also vaguely remember from Dresden Files. As you read in the prompt, I first needed to find a reason for many Santas and just one Elf and honestly Industrialization was the best that I could think of. Then the idea of needing more Santas to deliver to outer space because magic doesn't extend to outer space ... I always liked that idea, but I did need to cut it after that because it started to go off tangent from there to the point that it might've derailed the idea of the whole story. And yes, I know that Christmas was a couple days ago, but ... I'm lazy

Drunken Hunt

Guided by a pair of flashlights and the slight buzz of inebriation, Agents Talon and Pike walked through the ankle deep water and sludge of the city’s sewer system, guns at the ready. With no sign of their target, Talon stopped to take another swig of gin and tonic from his flask. “Maybe we’re doing this all wrong,” he said, looking at the half-empty flask and hoping it wasn’t just the alcohol talking. Talon finished the flask, tossing it aside and pulling out another full one. “We know it only hunts drunks, and only drunks can see it.” He emptied the flask into his mouth, gulping down another gin and tonic in a matter of seconds. He did the same with a third and fourth flask.

“So your plan now is to become drunken bait?” Pike said, shaking his head. He looked at the empty flasks lying on the sewer floor. “Well, we can’t go back now. Just remember you still need enough motor functions to pull that trigger. This isn’t a problem you can solve just by punching it in the face.” Pike moved up the tunnel and around the corner where he could wait and still keep an eye on Talon.

After another twenty minutes of nothing, Pike headed back down the tunnel. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked, eyeing the slight wobble Talon acquired in his stance. 

"It’s weird,” Talon said, spinning in a slow circle as he spoke, “I don’t feel drunk, but I feel like I can feel something watching, but I don’t feel drunk." 

“Hey!” Pike shouted as he ducked under Talon’s raised gun before grabbing him. “Not that drunk, huh? Maybe you should give me a couple of those flasks, in case this goes sideways.” 

It was at that moment that Talon sensed it: an extra pair of eyes upon his back, the presence of another living creature, somewhere unseen but known. He spun and landed hard on his backside, flashlight and gun both flailing wildly. Bang! barked his gun as it slipped from his hand and sunk in the dark waters. “It’s here, I know it’s here, I can feel it,” Talon stammered, his hand splashing, searching for his gun. He tried to get back to his feet, and instead succeeded in flopping over and getting a mouthful of sewage. 

Still on his feet, Pike continued to turn in slow circles as his flashlight was the only thing keeping whatever hid in the darkness at bay. “Where is it? I can’t see it,” he said. 

That’s when Talon heard the sound of a third set of footsteps stalking behind them, the sloshing strides of feet moving in the water but never breaking the surface. “It’s here, it’s got to be right on top of us!” he shouted as he tried desperately to pick himself up off the ground.

            

That’s when he felt the fingers, claws, grip his coat and drag him several feet down the tunnel before tossing him into the brick wall. He blinked several times and in the dark he saw a blurred, shadowy outline looming over him. Even in his current state, he still couldn’t get a clear view of the monster. Luckily he had one last trick. He reached behind his back to grab his final flask, a gin and tonic cocktail that was basically just gin with a drop or two of tonic water. He drank as quickly as he could and almost instantly felt the alcohol go to work on his senses.

The monster appeared before him: a fat, albino creature with dark red stains of dried blood covering its skin. It was almost human-like, standing at just over four feet tall with two odd-shaped legs and elongated arms. It definitely didn’t look like a creature built for speed but with Talon almost incapacitated and against a wall, the monster didn’t need to be fast.

“My name is Agent Richard Talon from The Hunter Agency. You are under arrest and ordered to surrender,” Talon tried to say, though, the only words he was certain he said were “Agency” and “arrest.” Based on the look on the monster’s face, it also looked like those were the only words it understood as well as it reared back its right arm and punched Talon hard in the face. Talon was sure the punch was supposed to feel like a hammer coming down on his cheek, but, with the amount he’d drunk that night, it felt more like a polite knock. Talon laughed as the monster hit again, this time in his ribs.

The monster roared in frustration, but before it could attack, Talon regained the functions of his hands and arms. He reached out and grabbed the monster’s neck with one hand and delivered a vicious blow with the other. And another blow. And another blow. The creature staggered slightly, but his punches wouldn’t be enough to bring the monster down before it could kill him. Unfortunately, Pike was the only one with a gun, but even he couldn’t shoot what he couldn’t see.

He punched once more before he heard a shout come from up the tunnel, followed by a deafening bang. The monster’s head jerked once, unnatural liquid spraying from its skull as it fell to the sewer floor. The next thing Talon heard were the sloshing steps of Pike running in the darkness.

“How did you make that shot?” Talon asked, his eyes moving from Pike to the carcass lying on the floor.

Pike smiled and motioned to Talon’s fists. “I told you, you punch things in the face as if it solves all your problems. I just aimed at the empty air where you were punching.”

Talon pulled out another flask and took a swig. He felt his head tilt back against the cool brick wall and his eyes close. “Just another day at the office,” he heard himself say as he thought about the massive hangover awaiting him the next morning.

This was actually an entry into a writing contest I entered earlier this year. A short, short fiction contest, all the contestants are split into groups and each group is assigned certain parameters to follow in addition to a limit of 1000 words. For my group, it was just 3 things: 1. Theme: Thriller; 2. Setting: A sewer; and 3. An object: a gin and tonic cocktail. When the results came in, I got zero points within my grouping (meaning I won't be moving on to round two) but I did get some interesting feed back. The judges really liked the idea of needing to be drunk to hunt a monster. They also suggested that something more should go wrong (to increase tension). I think if I had a higher word count (or better editing skills) I probably would've done more with the idea, perhaps prolonging the hunt in some way, maybe a chase rather than the monster just appearing. Surprisingly, they also liked the interaction between Talon and Pike, even wanting more of it. This is surprising mostly because, to me, my weakness is in writing character. I've always thought I was better at writing scenes than dialogue and character development. Not that I'm better at writing action, just that I suck at those other things. My only guess is that it's been from all the practice at writing these short stories and these different characters, trying to make them appealing for a one-shot story rather than building them up through multiple entries. This story though may be one of the first ones that I liked enough that I think I may actually use the advice and try to get around to making longer and sending it off somewhere for publishing (and hopefully money).