Fortnightly Writing Competition - Subject: Afterlife! (1/21 - 2/04) WINNER!

[matthewmcmurry]

This time around, our subject is: Afterlife! Hooray!

Similar (but not entirely) to this months MAGS,  the challenge is to write a short story (or poem!) involving in some way or another, life after death. It could be the main character that's in the afterlife, or it could be another character communicating from the afterlife, or just something afterlife related! You choose!

A few things to think about:

• What/where is afterlife? Is it hell? Is it limbo? Is it a magical land of candy canes?
• How did your character get there? Or has he always been there?
• Is it friendly there? Is it hostile? Is it spooky?

What are the answers to these questions? Will they even be answered? You decide!

PRIZES FOR ALL

1st place!


2nd place!


3rd place!


Participation award!

All entries should be in by the 4th of February. Voting will determine the winner, and all ties will be broken by a random number generator (your name will be assigned a number then the generator will decide your fate).

Have fun and good luck!

[Atelier]

Yeah cool I'll be entering this one! (To finally fulfill my oath of winning).

[Oliwerko]

I'll probably join too, finally a theme that might spark some ideas in my skull 

[Tenacious Stu]

I'll probably join too, finally a theme that might spark some ideas in my skull 

:'( Superheroes could have sparked some ideas...

Just Kiddin' 

He does have a point though, this challenge should be a good one, nice one matt!

Nice Trophies too, makes the need to win even more great. 

[poltergeist]

Definitely entering. Great theme, by the way.

[matthewmcmurry]

Glad everyone liked the subject! I'm stoked for the stories! 

[kconan]

Superheroes could have sparked some ideas...

Those Superhero trophies are cool, thanks for cooking them up.

I like the afterlife theme.  I'll have to mull it over a bit, as nothing is popping into my head. 

[Calin Leafshade]

Ok I'm in

My Penultimate Torture

Before me, and at all sides lays desert. Not peppered with the slow, shifting dunes of sand but rather featureless and flat. Footsteps in the dust scream testament to the existence of others but I have neither seen nor heard another soul. The world is always enshrined in daylight but never hot as if encircling a distant sun whose light travels beyond the grasping reach of its heat. Under this ever-present sun I have wandered for what seems to be days in relentless daylight, neither tiring nor longing to drink. I do not care to guess the true extent of my time here. Such thoughts lead only to spiritual fatigue. A willing body encasing a withered soul. I just continue to walk.
    I do not know if what I see is all there is, nor if all others see what I see but I have come to know that which was unthinkable before. A pious man in life, I ne’er dared utter the question ‘Whence cometh evil?’ but now I feel I know. For what better torture can one exact upon one’s enemies than to strip them of life, of feeling and most malevolently, of hope.
    I began my penitence much as any other might. I repented for that which had condemned me to such a place and hoped for my salvation. Even a pious man should not expect to escape all punishment and I bore what I had been taught I was expected to bear but tell me - What sin begets infinite punishment? What love hath thou shown me here? What use is punishment with no opportunity to use the lesson one learns?
    Indeed, I worshiped like a true believer, giving my life to that which I had been told was right and just. All that I stole from mortal life I repaid in kind with yet more to furnish those less fortunate than I and yet still, I find myself here. I stood, engaged in the beauty of life with rapt admiration. I could want nothing more nor give more that what I had given and yet still, I find myself here.
    So what conclusions must I draw? Where is my paradise? Where is my salvation? Why cause me to endure that penultimate torture with only this to follow?
   

Whence cometh evil, my Lord? It cometh from thee.

[Oliwerko]

Me too, me too!

Where’s good?

I’ve always wondered how it looks like after you die. I’ve always wondered how afterlife looks like, if there is any. Not that I would want to see it in the near future, I just wondered.

I’ve always wondered if the good will be rewarded and evil punished. But always, I got stuck at the same question: what’s good, and what’s evil?

I won’t deny that I’ve always refused to organize myself in any kind of religionist group. Not because of their convictions, not because of what they believe in; but because many of them don’t have any convictions, and don’t believe in anything.

I haven’t ever felt the need to share my convictions with anyone. Is that bad? I don’t know. And that’s what I wondered about the most.

I’ve always wanted to do good. Universal good, to everyone whom I think deserves it. But then again, who am I to judge who deserves and who doesn’t?

I asked myself a lot of questions, and I still do.

Is what I do really good? What if I don’t really know what’s good and what isn’t? Take a situation where with only good intentions, I would do something bad to someone. Does that ‘count’ as good, or as evil? Will I be punished for wanting to help?

Simply put, I’ve always wondered that if there is afterlife, if there is something that will judge all the people in the end â€" is it fair? One of my worst fears was the fear that it isn’t. One of my worst fears was that someone can do good all their life, and end up worse than someone who only does evil.

I’ve always wondered if I’m a ‘true’ believer even if I don’t ‘share’ my faith with anyone, even if I don’t have a name to call my ‘god’, even if I disagree with most of other ‘believers’.

What counts? Whether or not are you part of an organization and follow its regulations with no hesitation, or whether or not you really do what you think is good?

I asked myself a lot of questions, and I still do. But for the time being, I’m satisfied doing the best I can, regardless of what anyone else may tell me.

Because in the end, after what else can you decide than after your own sense of what’s good and what’s evil?

[Ponch]

:'( Superheroes could have sparked some ideas...

Hey now, Stu. Don't be like that.  It was a good idea. And the trophies were cool. Plus you had more entries than trophies, and that's not always the case with these things.

[Zetsaika]

Curiosity

Sometimes my curiosity takes better of me.
But sometimes, i just need to know.
I'm happy just for the feeling of knowing something new.
Just like the time i opened an alive rabbit just to see how it is inside.
They call me crazy and mad.
Its not like i am evil, i just want to know.
Above everything else i just want to know.

Now i seek the ultimate fact of life.
Death.
I want to, i need to, know what happens when you die.
But theres is an empiric problem in front of me.
If i kill a subject, it can't say to me how is it.
For others it would be hard.
But to me was quite easy.
I will be the subject.

Everything from now on will be made in my afterlife.
And so i shot my head....
...
...
...
...
...


Another great theme. Man, this contests make me happy.
I can work out my mind with them.

Good Luck people. =P

[Jimbob]

Never tried this before, but it felt good to write this piece. I may do it again sometime.


He woke up, vision slowly arriving to focus the darkened space of his apartment bedroom. He blinked once. That was better. Things seemed to become more clear. What was that dream about? It had something to do with... Claire?

A shape shifted on the bed beside him. I'd better not wake her he thought, it's still early. He imagined it must be a Sunday morning, and decided to freshen up. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and padded over the carpet towards the en-suite. He tugged on the dangling cord holding the porcelain fish that had long since been battered and bruised from cracks on the bathroom wall.

Nothing turned on.

Ahh damn. He was sure he had changed the bulb recently, but nothing seemed to stay working in this new place of his. He stood a while, pausing to examine his face in the mirror, just visible in the half light. The shadows seemed to blur his features and lines slightly, making his face look more youthful somehow. Dismayed by his lack of progress, he returned through the bedroom to enter the main studio lounge, and the dawn light hovered behind the blinds. Maybe I'll find myself a warm coffee around the local cafe, he thought, as his gaze lingered a moment on the cluttered table tops of his kitchenette. Nothing was going to happen here.

He found himself outside, running on autopilot towards South Street. These pavements had been well rehearsed, but there was a nagging tug from the back of his mind that something was different, or strange somehow. His gaze remained slightly downward, playing the subconscious game of dodging the cracks with each footfall.

He pushed on through the glass panel door of the local coffee shop. Mario's? Mirando's? The sign above had long since been reduced to less than a handful of letters and held only a brief clue to what had once existed. The buzz of a television repeat on a high stand played out above the counter, slightly overpowering the noise of the coffee machines and a pair of early risers sat together, but faced away on a table in the corner. An attendant leant back against the sideboard, gave a cursory glance at the door, then turned back towards the black box with almost an ignorant shrug.

He called out his order and sat down at a table by the window. The day was already brighter, but he couldn't remember exactly when the sun had risen. A coffee was placed in front of him and remained untouched. Instead, he looked out at the figures passing by on the street. These local shops never changed, surviving despite the rise of the modern shopping mall. He wondered how. Apart from that thought, his mind was curiously blank. Empty space where he imagined thoughts should be, why was he up so early anyway? Did he have somewhere to be?

He spotted someone crossing the road towards the cafe. Was that... his mother? The figure ignored his gaze through the glass and proceeded to open the door, turning to face it with one hand on the handle to carefully guide it closed.

"Hello? ... Mum?"

The woman walked over to the table and finally met his eyes and flashed a smile. "Hello dear, I thought I'd find you here."

"What are you doing?" he asked, idly fingering the cup in front of him but not lifting it.

"You haven't realised yet have you?"

"Realised what?" He'd left the cup alone now, and had his arms crossed on the table in front of him, full attention on the figure that was his mother.

"You always were a little slow," she continued, ignoring his question, "even after graduation I thought you could've learnt a little more."

"I don't get it."

"Don't you recognise this place?"

"It's where I always come for coffee in the morning." He paused. "Isn't it?"

"Not exactly dear." She stopped to grab the chair opposite him and sat down. The other occupants of the room had not moved nor taken any interest in their conversation, nor had even seemed to notice the newcomer. "Do you remember what happened last night?" She continued, in the same manner that suggested the questions were not for her own benefit.

There was that blank again. There was that dream, sure, but even that felt slightly out of reach. "There was... a car? And Claire was there..." Even as the words stumbled out, he felt unsure of himself, as if he wasn't quite in control of where they had come from.

"You never did ask her out did you?"

"How did you...?" He started, startled. But before he could get any further he realised she was right. What was she doing back at his bed at home? "Where am I?" was the only remaining question he could muster.

She sighed, looked down at his drink, moved to hold his hand and looked back up to his now frightened face. "You are still dreaming, Martin. Only this time, I don't think you are going to wake up."

He remained static and sullen, staring at her with no other words to say.

"This coffee shop," she paused to look around, "was where I used to take you when you were young. I'm surprised you didn't think the decor too chintzy, far from the modern scene of cafe bars you seemed to hang around."

She carried on, seeing his continued vacant posture. "That porcelain fish in your bathroom isn't yours you know, it used to hang in your grandparents old bathroom, in their cottage in the countryside. I'm surprised you thought you would own such an odd piece, especially in your new apartment."

"How did you...?" He started again, and stopped at another blank as the woman ignored his interruption.

"I've been dead for several years, dear. And you've never looked younger, by the way." She smiled again. "What's happened has happened though, nothing can change that now."

"But what do I do now?"

"Well, this is your afterlife, dear, not mine. I'm only here, dredged up from your memories, delivering words you have already conjured up yourself." She began to stand, pushing the chair back lightly. "You should enjoy it whilst you still can." As she finished. she removed herself from the table, and carefully exited in the same manner as her entrance, and the door softly closed.

He looked outside again, his face no longer afraid or confused. The street outside had already changed.


(The story is based on the thought that your brain activity continues for 8 minutes after the rest of the body 'dies'. And a subconscious minute could effectively last a lifetime. I re-watched the film 'Waking Life' recently which kinda inspired it)

[Atelier]

Woops, this must be my longest entry ever by far. I imagine it as the ending chapter of a novel. Anyway, here it is.



Hunwald

It was a perfect night, watched only by the stars and a burning moon. There was nobody about – the trees were alone. In the darkness they held each other’s ancient hands, and whispered ancient things to each other. An owl cut noiselessly through the mist that hung stubbornly in the air. It seemed to be the only thing brave enough to move about in the beautiful but terrible night.

A man, hooded and cloaked, appeared in the mist. He was as stealthy as an assassin – his steps on the leaf litter were nimble and light, and like that owl he slipped noiselessly through the night, invisible to even the sharpest fox in the woods. His hood cast a shadow over his face. To the few that knew him, his name was Hunwald, and his past was darker than his ways.

Above him, the boughs creaked nervously, like the rigging of some great ship. All of a sudden, a breeze caught the sails and he was caught in a storm of pink and red blossoms, which decorated his cloak. He snatched one from the air like a frog catches a fly, and took a moment to admire it in the moonlight, which trickled like silver through the trees. It was the prettiest flower he had ever seen – so simple in design; a gift from the trees; a last passing gift as they lost their hair, and in their nakedness finally withered into the cold night. It was a cruel but inevitable death.

After a while, Hunwald came across a stream that shimmered like a shattered mirror. The stars printed their image on the surface. He watched the water waltz across the rocks, and heard it tumbling further downstream. The air smelt of potent petal perfume and raw Earth.

He leapt the stream with all the vigour of a fox, and came to a rolling dive on the opposite bank. He looked covertly about with his void eyes and gathered his cloak around him. The trees were restless. As terrible as the cry of murder, an owl’s screech split the night. Something was stirring. Hunwald sank to the ground and turned to face the stream.

Slowly, a fine horse materialised out of the mist, and with a precision only achieved through an expert rider, it descended the opposite bank, and dabbled its hooves in the water’s edge. It was clad in solid, cold battle armour, and as it snorted, plumes of icy air flew from its nostrils like a dragon. The armour was etched with intricate motifs, which looked like luminous tattoos on iron skin.

The horse stamped the floor impatiently – but its rider, who was half hidden behind the giant beast’s head, tugged on the reins and stayed it. A brutal silence followed, where the trees held their breath and the water crawled at half pace over the riverbed.

There was a clanking of metal as the rider dismounted, and finally revealed himself to Hunwald. He was a gigantic brute of a man. He wore battle-scarred greaves and cuisses over his trunk-like legs, and a hauberk that strained to hold in his muscles. Across his broad, bear-like back was a solid war-hammer, and at his waste lolled a sword. A person of such kind had never before been seen in the Kingdom, especially one as ferocious. The big brute’s name was Fendrel.

Hunwald felt a shiver of satisfaction run up his spine. This was it.

Fendrel crouched by his horse with one massive hand on its abdomen, and another following deep-set footprints in the mud. The spot where Hunwald sprang across the stream. Fendrel raised his head enigmatically and scanned the opposite bank. He saw nothing, save trees, which stared back complacently at him in the gloom.

An owl called somewhere behind him. He span around but met nothing but mist. He felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He heard his heart in his mouth. He smelt his own fear. Every detail of the world was in sharp, meticulous focus.

As if in slow motion, as if from thin air, Hunwald vaulted the horse from behind and clamped onto Fendrel’s torso in one precise motion. The latter, taken completely by surprise, let out a snarl and attempted to pluck Hunwald from his back like a bear removes a stubborn wasp. Using his awesome strength, he quickly cast Hunwald to the ground. Both hands free, Fendrel took his war hammer and in a heartbeat it was hurtling towards Hunwald in an arc of death. Hunwald rolled over and the redundant hammer blow cracked the earth like a sheet of ice. Fendrel roared and thumped Hunwald in the back as he leapt up.

The war-hammer was left rooted in the ground. Hunwald flashed out the sword from Fendrel’s own belt and leapt aside from a weighted punch. The two danced slowly on the bank, regarding each other with vigilance. None spent syllables on the other. Their palms were sweaty; Hunwald’s mantle was stifling; Fendrel’s hauberk cumbersome. For all their differences, the fight was pitched, and each held the same desire.

Fendrel was the first to move. He snatched a hunting bow hanging from his horse’s saddle pack – the beast was used to battle and had remained like a dog at its master’s side. In a fluid movement he knocked an arrow to the string and pulled it back effortlessly. The trees recoiled. The stream swelled angrily. The mist crept round the men’s throats.

The arrow tore from the bow.

With super-human calculation Hunwald hurled Fendrel’s sword. It didn’t stop. It cut the arrow from flight. It didn’t stop. It severed Fendrel’s torso like a hot knife through butter. The top half slipped face down into the mud. The armoured legs were left standing morbidly to attention.

Hunwald took the sword from the ground and washed it in the stream. The water lapped up the blood like a timid cat and hurried it downstream like crimson ribbons in a fury of clear water. The owl, which had haunted the night like a spectre, had fallen silent.

Hunwald moved to Fendrel’s horse and jumped into the saddle, before vaporising into the mist without a sound or backwards glance. By the time the dust clouds from the horse’s hooves settled, he had melted undetectably into the night.

Thus began Hunwald’s afterlife.

[Dualnames]

Monologue

So there, I mean, what's the point? Why do people even make those discussions with themselves? The ones you feel weird about? The ones where the real you appears, and then you stand wondering why that person is only in your brain? Is it the lonely nights that we pass? Is it the loneliness that we all must endure and some of us just find this way? And then suddenly a very strange thought happens, you know.

A thought about death. What would happen if you die.

What would happen to you.

All I have is this thought of me falling from a building. Endlessly. No people in this still image that repeats and moves slowly. It's always in my head though.

You know to somewhat calm my heart from beating so fast. So fast from all those thoughts about dying.
I don't really want to live, but death when I'm not stressed feels like not an option I'd choose?

Am I a walking contradiction? Someone never to be taken seriously? Someone's thoughts that no one will care about and instead either disregard and ignore, or just tell me everything is fine, just to make me shut up? Am I just someone that craves for attention? Am I REGULAR?

[matthewmcmurry]

Wow, amazing stories so far guys! We have 6 (almost 5) days remaining, so LET'S BRING IN SOME MORE ENTRIES! 

[Anian]

I wrote around three paragraphs of some generic descriptions of limbo, but felt it was froced and uninspired, so I wrote something generic and forced that  (almost always) ryhmes instead.  

The wind did howl, the storm was raging
throughout the night, clouds kept the Moon caged in.
Your scarf in my pocket, but your scent almost gone,
my horse fell in the mud, but I continued to ran on

City soon glittered, earth turned to cobblestones
houses turned into towers, backalleys filled with moans.
And as I ran, as I caught my final exahle
at the end of a dark street, I thought I'd find you there.

Coarse sheets and a red light pryed my eyes
I saw sins of men and a demon in disguise.
Her hair darker than the night, gaze cold as her touch
and this was hell, I knew as much

She took your scarf and never gave it back
said I was now hers but I can draw a card from a deck.
Poison in my veins erasing your embrace,
such heat and noise fading the memory of your face.

While I still had courage and all my blood,
I said a silent prayer and picked one card.
She said I was lucky, we were both free
only my soul never again will I see.

I awoke among crucifixes and marble saints
whole books of black and golden names,
felt your hand in mine, still slightly cold,
my body here, my soul left locked and sold

We ran, we laughed, as earth replaced the cobblestones
soon we were home, but there was ache in my bones
Your hair so dark, your gaze as cold as your touch
only hell I brought back, I knew as much.

[Tenacious Stu]

Looks like I'll be sitting this one out, just super swamped with University and Work and other projects. Shame, I had this idea of a story about Zombies, but from the zombie's point of view 

[WHAM]

I happened on this topic and got an instant idea in my head so I had to write this. I'm not sure if it is ok by the rules, it seems to be quite different from what others have posted, but I still wanted to post it. Hope you guys enjoy!




The following transcript was recovered on a data disk, which in turn was discovered inside an emergency escape pod, evidently launched manually from the Alpha Centauri IV research station by an unidentified person. The transcript is a text-form of an audio log, although some of the data is corrupted, resulting in only a partial extraction of the video-log mentioned in the transcript.

[Record date: Jul. 28th 2714]
[Record start time: 00:14:42 SET (Standard Earth Time)]
[Recorder: Rank 2 Observer S. Miller (OS-SS-56-773-A)]

[Begin transcript, manual start]

Testing, one, two, one two... Good.

My name is Sean Miller, I work in the Alpha Centauri four research station. My ID code is five-six-dash-seven-seven-three-dash-alpha. I am responsible for observation of the research on this station, and of collating reports to be sent back to Earth.

I - [fragment]

I, uh - [fragment]

- seem to be having difficulties typing, so I'm doing an audio log now. Its - [fragment]

- uh - [fragment]

Its so hard - [fragment]

- so -[fragment]

Hrcrmm [clears throat]

Quantum physics divides all things into dimensions: the first dimension a mere concept of a point in space.

The second dimension, a line drawn from the point, creating a two-dimensional shape.

The third dimension gives the shape depth, creating the three-dimensional space you and I see every day.

A proper quantum theorist would use more difficult terms, I'm sure, but -

- but this will do. [fragment]

The three-dimensional object also acts as a point, a point in time.

The fourth dimension is time, a sort of line of three-dimensional objects, moving from order into disorder. A vase falling from a table and shattering on the floor, for example. A sort of river of three-dimensional objects forming a uniform line, which cannot turn on itself.

The fifth dimension gives time a shape, allowing it to ebb and creating the multiverse. An infinity of routes time might have travelled, a fork in the river. What if the vase never fell? What if it was never there to begin with? It boggles the mind just thinking about it. There are more dimensions, but they are of no matter to us here. Save for one...

This log is paired with a vid-log of our experiments. The scientists narrated it, or thought they did, but after the experiment began, there was no sound. All was still and quiet. I will do my best to narrate the vid-log, as a layman, to give perspective to those who might watch it later. I -

[sound of bottle opening, liquid being poured into glass]

Gllb, gmph, gghh [Drinking ?]

Hahh [Unknown sound?]

[click, button]

The vid-log begins in an room. This is not the first time we ran such an experiment, and knowing what to expect the scientists decided upon this room for a reason which will become evident later. Professor Anderson is seen removing a protective plastic cover from a circular device, which we will reference from now on as the "portal". Professor Geller is at the moment handling the camera from outside of the frame, panning it around the room, showing that the room is a standard space of one-hundred square meters, walls, floor and ceiling consisting of uniform metal plates. The room was used as storage space before it was emptied, and as such the walls are unpainted and bare. A single metal door can be seen, next to which are some machines that are used to feed power and coolant into devices attached to the portal, via tubes and cables. There is also a small cylinder-shaped cage, which is covered with a black cloth. This contains a small canine which was selected to participate in this test. I myself can be seen standing next to the door, making notes. This was the first time I participated in the experiments conducted with the portal.

Professor Geller now moves the camera close to the portal and places it on a tripod so that the view is through the portal, towards the solid back wall of the room. The original audio track contains some notes and narration from the professors at this point, as they talk each other through the power-up sequence of the portal. You can -

You can see a bright light in the portal as it is powered. The sequence takes precisely fourty-three seconds. The light fades after a short while and the portal seems unchanged, save for two details. There are now two objects visible that were not visible before: a small object on the floor near the portal, and a larger shape in the back corner of the room. All audio is cut at this point -

I can remember the professors talking, well, trying to talk to one another. It seems that all sound had disappeared, as if we were standing in a vacuum, although the air was still perfectly breathable.

Professor Anderson's hand is visible in the frame now, as he places three sensors through the portal. You cannot see it from this angle, but the objects seem to just disappear as they are placed through the portal. Two devices transmit wireless signals and the third is connected to the machinery near the door via a thin wire. Professor Geller now moves the camera a bit to show you the monitors. Both wireless devices have stopped transmitting immediately after being placed through the portal, though the wired device is transmitting data. It registers the temperature as minus seventy degrees centigrade, and fails to detect any kind of background radiation, even the small traces that normally penetrate the station walls. After a short while the professors remove the sensors, and as professor Geller is now holding the camera in an angle, you can see how it seems that the devices professor Anderson in retrieving are materializing from thin air.

I was astonished to see it. A wormhole we called it at one point, not long ago.

The professors have named the space behind the portal as "dimension zero", though few call it with a different name.

[click, button]

[pause: 81 seconds]

[metallic object clattering against a hollow metal surface (table?)]

[pause: 12 secunds]

[click, button]

I rewinded the vid-log a little. I - [fragment]

I didn't want to see - [fragment]

I - [fragment]

Professor Anderson is now holding the camera next to the portal, while professor Geller moves the portal.

The device is standing on a wheeled stand for easy transportation.

There is still no sound.

Professor Anderson turns the portal so that you can better see what is on the floor, the small object we glimpsed earlier. This is the first time the objects are properly studied, as we only have limited time to conduct these experimets, due to the massive power drain of the portal. There was one previous study conducted alone by the late professor Stone, though he didn't use a camera to visually record the event.

The camera is now moved closer for a better view. The object seems to be a small furry mammal, likely a small rat. It is unmoving and looks like a pale, transparent shadow of a real creature. Professor Geller produces a long metal rod and uses it to gently poke the creature through the portal. Perhaps an unscientific method, but an effective one. It seems that the rod passes through the rat-creature, scraping the floor. The camera is jerked back and professor Geller is frantically speaking at professor Anderson, who is holding the camera, but there is still no sound. The professor drops the metal rod and presents his palm to the camera. There is a black mark on the skin, as if a very localized frostbite had caused superficial necrosis of the skin. The -

Geller grimaces and shakes his head. It is not visible, but he nudges the metal rod away with his foot.

He seems distraught and shaken, but after a very short pause and some frantic gestures of pulling a plug and denial, the professors decide to continue.

The portal is moved once more, and as it is turned the camera can now see the larger object in the corner.

Hahhh! [gasp]

gnnn [?]

My god - [fragment]

[sounds of shattering glass]

Aah! [fragment]

The large shape, it - [fragment]

Similiar to the rat-thing, the figure is a transparent and pale shadow form, the professors move the portal around to get a more precise view of the thing. It is a man. A human being.

He - [fragment]

Stone had called it purgatory - [fragment]

MY god, I - [fragment]

The shape of professor Stone is standing in the corner, wearing his usual lab-coat, his eyes seemingly gazing at the ceiling, right next to the spot from where his body was recovered not long ago, before the room was cleared. He had written on the walls -

Purgatory - [fragment]

His hands are holding the scalpel. He was found with a scalpel lodged in his - [fragment]

In his - [fragment]

There is a long incision - [fragment]

He had cut - [fragment]

My God, how can a man even - [fragment]

From his lower lip all the way to his chest, the cut is curved and struck an artery and his trachea -

He died fast, God bless his soul. The camera is moved so you can better see the face. Stone's face. His mouth is agape and his -

His eyes! [fragment]

They moved! They looked at us, followed us as we moved! He -

He was there! In - [fragment]

In purgatory - [fragment]

God!

God, I - [fragment]

huuuhn, huh, huhhc [sobbing]

[click, button]

They watch us - [fragment]

From beyond - [fragment]

[Footsteps, sound of door opening, footsteps, sound of door closing]

[Silence: 100 seconds]

[End transcript // Automatic recording halt, no user detected, 404]



[Addendum]

No communications were received from the Alpha Centauri IV research station after Jul. 24th 2714.
A rescue party arrived aboard the USS Killigan on Sep. 1st 2714, there was no sign of the crew of the research station. One body was recovered from the morgue; that of professor A. Stone. He had died from drowning (likely in his own blood) and / or massive blood loss due to a likely self-inflicted wound.

The portal device mentioned in the transcript was recovered and its safety is currently under evaluation.

[End of addendum]

[matthewmcmurry]

The 4th has begun (at least where I'm at  ). The competition will close at midnight tonight (CST time), so about 23 hours from now. Wondering whether you should do an entry or not? DON'T WAIT! DO IT NOW! One of those prizes could WILL be yours! 

[Akatosh]

[Note: This is both significantly longer and significantly darker than the stuff I usually write. As a sidenote: Imagine this is a TV ad in a dystopian cyberpunk-ish future. Participation award, here I come.  ]

A way out

Begin transmission.

Stories, they say, are not much younger than humanity, and this certainly seems to make sense - humans are social creatures, and what better way to help a small tribe bond than swapping stories and tales from the days of old over a campfire? Stories have a tendency to grow and expand over time. Immigration, too, is about as old as humanity, and immigrants bring new stories with them, containing new elements that might make for an interesting addition to the tribal myth. Eventually, after enough retellings - they may begin to become interwoven.

Another interesting fact - there have always been different kinds of stories. There are those purely told to entertain, or to convey a moral or political message - or just to frighten the more gullible youths, sometimes. However, there is another kind of tale - stories invented for a different purpose than to pass the long nights around the prehistorical campfire.

Certain stories survive because they are TRUE. Not in the literal sense, of course - these are stories that are *about* something true, a fact of life wrapped in a little narrative and a pleasant metaphor. Stories, in short, we tell to remind ourselves of something important.
These stories, of course, change over time - the narrative adapts to its new environment - but the core stays the same.

A modern example would be the Hypothetical Bus.

You've probably heard that one already - imagine you stepped outside this morning, caught up in your daily routine, and were hit by a bus, and... that's it. No more plans, no chance to wrap things up and "get a few more things done" before you depart. Today began just like yesterday, and then you ended up as a red smear on the pavement. Sounds a little morbid? Well, it's a story about mortality, that's expected - but this is how things are. As a mememto mori, the story HAS to be too true to be comfortable.

Modern society being what it is, the warning about the Hypothetical Bus is almost always followed by a sales pitch. Time is money, after all. This sales pitch can be about anything - I've heard people ask others to accept Jesus as personal saviour more times than I care to count, but there've also been pleads to acknowledge Jehovah, to make sure karma is in balance, or - more prosaically - to go on that expensive vacation before it's too late.

These sales pitches - believe it or not - are less shallow than it seems at first glance. It is rather telling that marketing is the way the collective unconscious of modern society is how it manifests, but this is another message that has been with humanity forever: Make sure you can live with your legacy. Don't keep regrets, don't push things too far in the future. Eventually, there will be no more "tomorrow" for you.

One day will be your last.

And, perhaps even worse, there is no evidence to conclusively prove there is an afterlife. There is a very good chance that this last "today" will not be followed by ANYTHING - you'll cease to exist, plain and simple.

So why am I telling you this?

Well, maybe it doesn't have to end this way. As you may have heard, a Canadian research facility has developed a certain... process last year, a process that may let you overcome the limitations of the flesh. It is not the Philosopher's Stone or the Fountain of Youth, but it *is* able to fulfill the ancient promise - you can have eternal life. Not the fake image of youth the beauty industry can staple on your face, and not the illusionary hope of myths and legends, but a proven, scientific procedure. It just takes a few weeks to allow your mind to be uploaded and a little donation to research - but will you really need money where you're going?

Life is fragile, short and with a definite end. But artificial perfection is eternal.

Our phone number is shown below. Think about it.

End transmission.