[WP] You are sentenced to a famous prison. You are not sentenced by time your stay only ends if you die or escape. There are no guards and the prison is broadcast on television. No one has ever escaped.
I'm not your average criminal. I don't get caught in the heat of the moment. I don't kill for greed and I don't rape my victims. I kill as a challenge to myself. To always follow my own rules, and get away with breaking the most sacred of society's. And I have a very particular rule. I always start with eleven.
Eleven is beautiful. It's the first symmetrical double digit number. It's the smallest double digit prime. If you reverse the digits of any number divisible by eleven, you get another number divisible by eleven. If I get itchy, I scratch eleven times. If I buy gas, I let it run until eleven dollars. I'm certain the terrorists who planned 9/11 knew of this significance. Eleven was beautiful. Memorable. Eleven has power.
But my last murder was sloppy. Not like the first, when I'd followed the girl to her apartment and slit her throat in her sleep. I stayed up all night with a hacksaw and left the apartment clean, save for the smell of iron in the restroom. She'd just vanished. Anyone who thought to check the sewers for her remains would've found scattered bits of little use to the forensics team.
No, it wasn't my fault. I always plan it out a week in advance. I set up days in advance. I scout. I wait. I indulge, an exact twenty-two cuts on the body. I start with eleven on the left. I end with eleven on the right. Double digits are perfection.
My last failed target, number six, was a college student by the name of Brandon Chang. I chose him because he lived alone. Though he spent a lot of time online, his friends wouldn't miss him for a few days. The apartment complex was known for being quiet. I'd crept to his window and pushed all twenty-one shutters gently aside with my gloves. I crossed the messy room to his bed, counting the floorboards... one... two... the third one creaked, so I skipped it.
As I neared his sleeping form, I stopped. "Something's wrong!" my brain shouted. I hate that feeling, but it had saved my skin more than once. I wasn't like the common rabble. If something felt wrong, something was wrong.
Your eyes have two types of vision cells- rods and cones. Cones can see in greater detail, but need more light to function. In the dark-lit room, my vision was all rods. So I didn't notice how his body lay still, not breathing.
Sirens surrounded the building and, though I hid, a young officer found me. She had to be between twenty-one and twenty-four. She had short hair, about five inches at the longest. It would've been easy for me to grab it. Slit her throat. But it would've been an uneven cut, and that bothers me more than anything. Plus, they would probably shoot me. So I didn't resist.
Brandon had committed suicide by overdose after a fight with his online girlfriend. She'd called the cops on a whim to check on him, and they found me. My explanation that he'd invited me over was quickly shot down, and as investigations continued, they found out about my murders.
The judge carried little sympathy. "For five counts of murder and callous disregard of human life, I sentence you to The Island," he'd said. I'd heard about the prison. It was a sort of puzzle that nobody had yet escaped from. They televised the thing and used the money to pay off the damage caused by significantly dangerous criminals. So a challenge, then.
"Bring it on," I'd smirked. The sentence didn't bother me as much as the judge's crooked glasses. One lens was smudged and a nosepad was loose. It dangled slightly when he adjusted them and itched at the back of my mind. I bet he hadn't cleaned them in years.
I woke up in a brightly lit room smelling of bleach and fabric softener. They'd replaced my clothing with soft cotten, but allowed me to keep my knife- Smith & Wesson, military edition. I found no guards as I crept down the immaculately clean hallway towards a backpack hanging from a wooden door. It was nice, as prisons go. I wouldn't have minded the stay if it were my choice. But it wasn't.
The backpack contained twelve military MREs and eleven water bottles, so I left one MRE behind and opened the door. A robot waited by a table with a game of chess. How mundane.
Of course, it was quite easy for me to defeat him, and I did so in exactly eleven moves. The door behind him slid open and I stepped in to the next room. And here I found my problem.
If I'd been left to continue my murders, I would've killed six more people, for a nice eleven. The fact that I only got away with five bothers the hell out of me. This I told the judge. I didn't think he cared at the time. But in this room, there were a hundred numbered safety deposit boxes and a key on the table. And someone had removed box number eleven.
This is fantastic, I would love to read more of this story. Well done.
The guard's boots sloshed in the icy water as he stomped down the abyss-black passageway. The thin beam of his flashlight sliced through the darkness and revealed slithers of damp rock wall. He could hear the gurgling of running water beneath him - the underground river that led to the body of water surrounding the island. At least the musty odour of the tunnel was hidden by the gift the guard held; the content of the steaming mug was like a cross keeping evil at bay.
There was only one cell in the lowest dungeon, and only one prisoner in that cell. Prisoner J.
"Hey, wake up - I've got you something, J," said the guard, as he arrived at the unlit cell, banging the heel of his flashlight against the door. The guard lifted the metal plate that allowed for food to be passed through; J's eyelids followed suit.
"Is that- you brought me-" he fell into a fit of coughing, releasing the dust and dried phlegm that caked his throat.
"Sip this, it'll help," said the guard, hiding the concern in his face. The coughs came from the prisoner's chest; it sounded like J had an infection. The guard chewed his lip as he considered the logistics that would be involved in smuggling antibiotics down to the prisoner the following day.
J took the mug of coffee, grasping it between two shaking hands. "Holy shit, I ain't sipping this yet," said J, wiping an arm across his mouth and letting the scent of the cheap coffee intoxicate him. "You insane, boss? What a waste that'd be. I'm going to save it for a very rainy day. And until then," he leaned into the mug and closed his eyes, "I'm going to let it take me away to somewhere a little more pleasant."
The guard shone his flashlight through the food hatch and examined J; the prisoner recoiled like a vampire.
"Ey, cut it out, will ya?"
The man's grey hair was like dirty dishwater, and his face was so pale that it was becoming translucent - thin blue lines ran like dried up streams under the skin on his forehead. His teeth were chipped and looked like fragments of broken, jagged glass. He looked like something out of a horror movie.
"Why'd you get me this?" J asked. "I'm not ungrateful, you understand," he sniffed, "I know how much you risked to bring it here. Hell, you could be the next man in this cell because of it. But I just kinda need to know - why?"
"I don't really have an answer for that," the guard confessed. "You always talk about coffee and what you'd give for the taste of it one last time, and all that shit. So, well, I just felt sorry for you, I guess." The guard scratched his head and the prisoner laughed.
"What?" asked the guard.
"Oh. I'm sorry, it's nothing."
"Come on, why'd you laugh?"
"It's just... you feeling sorry for me. It's strange, you know?"
"Because I'm a guard? Because I'm meant to have no soul?"
"No," said J, lowering his voice to a whisper as he crept toward the food hatch. He glanced behind him, up at the roof of his cell. "It's because you've got it backwards. You're a good man, boss. You don't deserve to be trapped here. You need to get out."
"What? I'm not trapped," said the guard, frowning. "I do this job because it pays well. I do it for my family - to put my daughter through college."
"How long have you been working here?"
"Since... shit, I don't know. Ten years, maybe."
"You remember when you started?"
"When's the last time you saw them?"
"Who? My family?"
"You know that visitors are prohibited from coming to the island."
"What color are your daughter's eyes, boss?"
"You sure about that?"
"Of course I'm fucking sure. What are you trying to pull? I brought you some coffee and now you're trying to piss me off?"
J raised his hands and slunk back to the corner of his cell. "I should've said nothing."
It was on the guard's way back out of the tunnel that he thought he noticed something on the passageway roof - something moving ever so slightly. Something he'd caught accidentally with a twitch of his wrist in the beam of his flashlight. Something that reflected the light that had been fired across it.
But when he shone the flashlight at the roof a second time, making a slow, thorough search, he couldn't see anything but dripping rock.
He must have imagined it.
The guard came to see J again the next day, stolen medicine in his inside jacket pocket. But he was too late. J had hanged himself sometime during the night, his thin cotton blanket a makeshift noose. A mug of untouched coffee sat cold and lonely on the stone floor next to the bed. Suicides weren't unusual - prisoners often killed themselves here - although, it was the first he had personally found. Maybe, the guard thought, it was better than living in these conditions for the rest of his life. He didn't blame J for his choice.
The guard carried on with his duties as usual that week, but all the while two thoughts nagged at him. They tapped at the door of his mind, demanding to be let in, demanding his attention.
The first thought was this: what colour are my daughter's eyes? He wasn't all that certain they were blue. He'd stayed up for hours after his conversation with J, lying in bed and trying to picture them clearly in his mind's eye. But he couldn't.
Maybe he was just getting old. Forgetful.
But it was the second thought that had burrowed fully into his brain and released a poison at its very core. A thought that was changing him and how he looked at the warden, his fellow guards and the other prisoners. It altered where he looked as he walked down passageways - always the roof now, looking for almost imperceptible movements - and it made him shiver as he lay awake at night.
It was a thought that made him realise he couldn't quit - ever. That instead, he needed to escape.
Why had the mug of coffee still been full?
But it would've been an uneven cut, and that bothers me more than anything. Plus, they would probably shoot me.
This sounds VERY like a potential Batman villain.
This is a little convoluted but here's what happened: Spoiler
Link to the text, in case that doesn't work for you (I'm looking at you, reddit official mobile app): https://www.reddit.com/sub/nickofnight/comments/6iryti/my_favourite_stories_stories_by_genre/dlnh...
I stared blankly at him across the table. The soft tinkling of cutlery and muted chatter continued from afar, but there was nothing else on my mind save for his words.
Probably just a joke. I gathered myself and forced a laugh. “Good one.” I reached for my wine and raised it towards him before emptying the contents.
Petrov looked back at me, unamused. “This is not the ramblings of a drunken man,” he said, folding his arms. “It’s the truth.”
“Come on, professor. It’s basically the plot of the Matrix.” The movie had been the perfect introduction to cyberpunk themes since its release. Who could blame a lecturer of Philosophy for tapping into the deep layers of meaning behind it?
“It’s been done to death.” I placed the empty wine glass opposite his. “I’m sure you could have come up with a better idea if you tried.” I said.
He leaned forward. “This is no mere story.” Petrov said.
I sighed. “Mr Petrov,” I said, frustration creeping into my words, “I agreed to see you because I thought you had something that could help my thesis, but now you’re just wasting my time with bad re-imaginings of an old movie.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand well enough.” I got up suddenly. The chair screamed as it dragged across the floor. A few angry stares swiveled around to our table, but I was ready to leave, anyway. “I understand that you’ve got too much time on your hands, Mr. Petrov, and that I’ve got better things to do. See you next week.” I reached for my coat on the chair.
“You dream of a bomb.”
I stopped to glare at him. But I said nothing.
“The bomb explodes in the middle of a city,” Petrov continued, crossing his arms again. “It was a beautiful day. Bright blue skies. No clouds in sight. But then it detonates and all you see is a deep orange glow.”
Cold sweats on my forehead. “Who told you that?” I asked. I could almost see the heat waves dancing around me as the skyscrapers crumble.
Petrov smiled and gestured to my seat.
I sat down again.
“Let’s try this once more.” He waved his hands about him. “This seems real, doesn’t it?” He asked.
I rolled my eyes. Again with the fucking Matrix thing. “I’ve cut myself before,” I said. “It bleeds and hurts. A lot. Therefore I’m sure it’s real.”
“No. It just feels real.” Petrov said. “Take a look around.”
I did so begrudgingly, viewing the surroundings. A steady stream of conversation bounced off the walls as groups of diners chatted amongst themselves. Not too quiet, but not unbearably noisy either. The restaurant was dim, lit only by candles and halogen lamps. You could almost see the food in front of you if you squinted slightly. The smell of barbequed pork hung in the air, thick and smoky.
I opened my mouth to speak. “I don’t understand-“
“According to science,” Petrov said, “what you see, hear, smell, taste and feel are merely electrical transmissions to your brain. Correct?”
“So if one were to induce that transmission precisely using artificial means, would it feel as if it’s real?” he asked.
“I get the point, Mr. Petrov,” I said, irritated by his line of questioning, “But even so, I don’t see how this is related to your outlandish claims.”
“It’s only outlandish if you think it is.”
What utter fucking nonsense. I began listing the points out by hand. “So according to you,” I said, holding up a finger. “I’m in a prison.”
“Yes.” He replied.
“There are no ‘guards’.”
“Correct.” He noticed my raised eyebrows. “It means no one tells you what to do here.” Petrov answered. “You’re free to live your second life as you please.”
I shook my head and continued. “So I can either die, or escape.” I said.
A nod. “But none have escaped so far.”
“And I’m on TV.”
A much slower nod. “In fact,” he said, “you’re the most entertaining one yet.”
I shook my head in exasperation. “This isn’t even remotely believable.” I said. “Like – who’s watching me right now?”
He checked his watch. “About a million, give or take.” He said.
The hairs behind my neck bristled.
“There are many entertainers just like you, Joanna.” Petrov said. “In fact, everyone around you is an entertainer. Like you, they were convicted as criminals and sent to a special prison, to live a second life under intense scrutiny.”
“I don’t believe you.” I said, voice noticeably wavering. “You’re just trying to scare me for some sick reason, I know it.”
“They say a prisoner's dreams are the only recollections of their true lives.” He said, looking smug.
That orange glow again. “What do you mean by that?” I demanded.
“You were – are – a terrorist, Joanna.” Petrov finally said. “Make of that what you will.”
That was enough. I got up again, determined to leave this time. “I’ll be reporting you to the authorities and dropping your course,” I said, snatching my coat and hurriedly wearing it. “Don’t try to contact me ever again.”
Petrov remained in his seat, thoughtful. “Do you know how they watch you?” He asked.
“Goodbye.” I said, grabbing my handbag and turning to leave.
“Cameras. Remember that.”
I pushed the door open.
A torrent of noise. Hordes of people crowding the restaurant’s entrance. Each of them holding up their smartphones, filming me.
I fled, making my way down the nearest alley in the cold December night. Snow fell as I marched onward, ignoring the crowd that followed closely behind. Why are they here? What do they want from me?
A rattle in my handbag. I fished out my smartphone and checked the screen. A message from Petrov.
I can help you escape.
I typed a reply as I walked, despite myself. Why? Sent.
Another message. I stopped to read, hands shaking from the cold and creeping fear.
Viewers love a good story.
That would depend entirely on The computer's difficulty right? If it is entirely incompetent you can beat it in four moves.
tensing99? Should be elevensing99
This sounds like something batman would do to him, leave him in a cell with no elevens
So... he has 99 boxes. Divisible by 11. He can make it work.
Only thing that is bothering me is, that you can't defeat a chess computer (even if it's half decent) in 11 moves. Even 22 moves would be impossible.
No, actually, white has a slight advantage because first move. However, black can get checkmate in 2 moves with awful play from white:f3 e5 g4 Qh4#
The names Smith and Wesson sum to eleven letters?
In other news, notorious criminal Jace Benni is still on the run from authorities since her escape from PCTV a few days ago. The police have renewed their appeal for information regarding her current whereabouts, and stressed that any who recognise her should keep away. She is considered armed and extremely dangerous.
"Extremely" dangerous? I don't think I quite agree with that. I'm almost tempted to call in, since I can get away with it. It is funny to see the police still insist on following me like this. It's gone far beyond looking out for the security of the public now. They dropped the ball, and they're scrambling to salvage their reputation.
So...am I dangerous? It depends on who you ask, on what your perspective is.
I killed someone. Some other bitch got in my face one night and it ended in a scuffle. She thought that short, skinny me would be a pushover. She pinned me to the floor and tried to choke the life out of me. What would you have done? I grabbed the first thing I could and cracked it over her head. Self defence see?
It didn't play out like that in court. Her pals insisted I struck first. The bar staff did the same. And it's true. I remembered her from a previous argument we had, and I hadn't finished when she ran off like a coward. But this is the real world, and the truth can be whatever you want it to be.
TV. It's a strange thing isn't it? With the right words in the right places you can convince people of anything. And these days people out there really, actually believe the world is flat, the conspiracies hiding behind politics, and that a guilty person is innocent.
I knew I was on TV, and I just stuck to the narrative. Pretty soon people were believing that poor, sweet, scared little me couldn't even hurt a fly. I didn't even need to try. When I heard the commotion outside I stepped out to see a demonstration, and I used it to escape.
Everyone saw it, but people who believe one thing stop everyone else from believing otherwise. Eyewitness comments on social media were contested, they trolled and convoluted them to a big mess. TV footage was fake, that wasn't really me getting into a taxi in the next town over. This is just the police trying to save face!
I finished eating my meal. It's good. The homeowner I ran into has been quite accommodating. He gave me a bed for the night, fresh clothes, a little spending money and fed me. Once I'm done here I need to travel north.
He won't say anything. No-one will. All he wanted was an autograph from sweet, innocent Jace.
It says there were 100 boxes in the room, but someone had removed 11, so there must be 99 boxes in the room.
Amazing story--I felt like I was in the mind of the narrator himself, and that ending is perfect for the brand of crazy that he has. Well done!
I normally hate reading but your story inspires me to read more. I would buy your novel in a heartbeat
Or two, if you play as black
I think it depends on what the prison is for. Maybe the challenge was that he had to do it in 11 moves, so the robot allowed it. If its for audience entertainment then it's just a warm up for what's to come
I'm not sure I understand...
What was the thing on the roof? Why is there a guard?
I feel like this is one of Jhin's cousins.
Love this. One thing that's bothering me is the line "they found out about my murders". It sounds out of character from what you have presented thus far. I feel as though the character would go through a bit more detail about how the dots must have been connected.
Nah, he has a hundred. 1 to 10, then 12 to 101.
I chuckled at leaving the 12th MRE behind
The gavel is struck and the decision is made. From now on my every moment will be displayed on to millions of people around the world. My freedom and privacy a thing of the past. As the thoughts of what possible roads lie ahead of me take hold of all my focus, the guards tug me to the side and go through the procedure required to begin transportation.
My sentence in the Living Prison is explained to me one last time as they strap me into the seat of my transporter. I will serve every day of my life unless I can escape. To insure the security of the prison the automated transporter has no windows or any way for passenger to see where they are until they reach their destination. The door is shutt and the mechanical lock moves into place. I felt the acceleration press me into the seat further than the straps held me before.
When the doors opened and my binds to the seat undone I exited the transporter to my new world. Leaving this place is said to be impossible and now that I was here I should find out why that is. The buildings are layed out in a grid each looking identical to the one next to it. I made my way to the nearest one and walked through the door. As I wandered the hallways I heared a familiar voice. I followed the voice for a few turns through the buildings narrow corridors trying to recognize who it could be. As I approached the source of the sound I got to a dark room where I could see the silhouette of a kid. I was baffled to think of the reason a child would be sentenced to such a place. I went closer to get a better look and as I entered the room the voice stopped. The kid stood up and looked me in the eyes. I looked back at it in terror. How could that be. It was me. That kid was me at a younger age. I could never escape this prison, for I was trapped in my own mind
Aw, thank you! That means a lot to me.
You don’t expect to end up here; no one expects to end up here. What a fucked up scheme. In a bid to finally create money from the judicial system some brainless asshole came up with a radical new idea. ‘Institutionalized’ the hit new TV show, an episode a week, sections of recorded footage filmed over the last seven days cut between portions of live content – doubly exciting if there is some flaming riot or grizzly fight happening. And the mob loved it, the ill-tempered excitable mob, watching from their comfortable chairs able to see their ounce of modern blood sport on TV each week.
But the mob grows bored, flighty and distractible as all people are; they need variation to keep their attention. So aside from all the unlicensed betting, the uncut and raw versions uploaded to the infinite Internet, there had to be a twist. And so halfway through the programme the guards were recalled, back to their barracks, to the staff room and safety. Half an hour of anarchy was allowed to play out on TV every Thursday evening. Then the live channels were established, initially only online they migrated swiftly onto the box when the profits were unveiled. Adverts and sponsors, legitimate betting and even care packages, the audience could participate, become involved. More invested, and it was only a matter of time until the audience could call back the guards.
I haven’t seen a guard in here for three weeks now, and that last time they were out for less than two hours before some rich prick pressed the button again.
Despite what you imagine, violent people don’t immediately resort to murder. There is something deep inside a human brain that knows we are a sociable species and killing all your potential conversation partners tends to leave you a little lonely. But you lock up a couple of hundred ordinary people in one cramped building and you see how long it takes for the first corpse to hit the floor. Well in here it’s like that, but with less patience. And fights escalate fast.
By and large it is a successful system; the public are shown what happens to law-breakers, prisoners are finally paying for themselves, and TV and media execs are getting money. What’s not to love? The trouble with this system like all forms of capital and corporal punishment is that sometimes people are innocent. And once you’ve been locked up, beaten or executed you tend to harbour a particular resentment.
If you like the style I'd like to write more :)
"What do you mean you're just gonna go for it? No one ever escapes"
"Yeah, but if I'm gonna die here anyways why not?"
Jack looked casually around, eyeing the cameras and getting a chill. Nerves were always high when someone was going to try an escape. They usually ended in death, but a few had managed to survive whatever horrible fate came of their attempt. Smitty had been impaled when he fell from the wall he was scaling, no one had even noticed the spikes at the bottom beforehand. Jiminez was actually found washed up on the rocks on the south end of the island, he swam for it, but he at least got out of the prison before nature took its toll. The stories were too many to count, and too gruesome to be worth dwelling over, but Jack was going insane and had decided death was better than staying.
"Tell the boys I went fighting", he uttered as he began his journey.
"It won't work, they'll gun you down, or cut you to bits, god knows they aren't letting you leave", Jacks buddy Tom pleaded.
His plan was audacious, it was arrogant and defiant. Jack would have it no other way. Just as the day the police took him in, when he made fierce eye contact and never once shied away from ownership of the spree of crimes that placed him in this stone box on this island with one single bridge to the mainland. It was time.
Jack stepped up to the door, a dark gray steel structure with cameras from every angle. He slowly pulled the lever releasing the latch, and took a step out onto the bridge. As he moved, each step deliberate and full of purpose, he waited for the sniper round that was surely going to take his life. Each step becoming agonizingly more desperate. At long last he had traversed the bridge completely unharmed.
"What the fuck?!?" He blurted out as he read the street sign in front of him "beinvenido a Tijuana???"
It says there were 100 boxes in the room, but someone had removed 11, so there must be 99 boxes in the room.
Because they go first and can set up before black, or something like that
(I don't know, I play shooters not chess...)
Personally, I've never owned or used a Smith and Wesson knife. But my character doesn't care about the quality, so long as it's usable. He cares about eleven.
White has the statistical advantage, actually. White wins about 55 percent of the time if I remember correctly.
I like how you instantly thought of an obsession, it added a lot of personality to the character.
there is an episode of black mirror nearly identical to this
Really well written until I hit
They'd replaced my clothing with soft cotten, but allowed me to keep my knife- Smith & Wesson, military edition.
A) keep your knife in prison?
B)Of all the knives you could have chosen, you chose Smith and Wesson?
Aaaah makes sense now.
Does black have an advantage in chess?
You absolutely are, but "This story is not good because..." isn't what we'd call respectful. Then incorrectly telling the writer what a prompt is, doesn't help.
I am sure you meant it to be constructive, but it came across pretty harshly.
She's such a good liar she convinces everyone she's innocent, they start protesting her arrest and no one will turn her in.
101 x 1.1 = 111.1 - 1.1 = 110 / 11 = 10 x 1.1 = 11
Yes, that's why I wrote halfway decent. Nowadays most smartphones are capable of playing against the chess-elite.
It doesn't make a lot of sense to let prisoners play against a chess computer if it's way to easy to beat
I thought it was excellent! I thought the amount of detail was just enough to leave the reader to piece together and have that "aha I get it now!" moment
I calls 'em like I sees 'em.
See you in karmacourt
Cool. Sorry it was unclear - it was my fault, not you missing anything obvious. It was kind of a practice piece.
Missed the part where its a special prison where you're encouraged to escape.
The key is for the deposit boxes. He likes 11 so would have picked box 11, but they know he likes 11 so they removed it to fuck with him.
Smith = 5 Wesson = 6 5 & 6 = 11
Black goes second in chess. Because your opponent goes first it is theoretically possible for them to accidentally create a gaping opening in their defense on their first move. If they fuck up in exactly the right way on their first two moves, and you make exactly the correct first move it is possible to checkmate your opponent on your second turn if you play as black. The moves white would have to make however are so incredibly stupid that they would have to do it on purpose and know that they are doing it.
I kept picturing Jhin while reading this xD. Characters with this sort of obsession brings uniqueness to their personality
Oh, I love this and hate this. The story's perfect, but the ending... But I suppose if it continued it would ruin the perfect narrative.
First world problems.
The sentence didn't bother me as much as the judge's crooked glasses. One lens was smudged and a nosepad was loose. It dangled slightly when he adjusted them and itched at the back of my mind
Was there another story like this? Probably a WP? Or a short film? The murderer can't help himself so he reaches down to a knife in his sock and kills the bailiff?
They're poor quality knives with a gun manufacturer's name slapped on them.
Yeah that was the only thing that seemed out of place in the story however I'm not really a writer or even a reader. I would have only added something like "Apparently I wasn't as clean as I thought. That bothers the hell out of me" or something. I dunno.
You got it (a new villain) : Tally Mark. II Like two tally marks, when he really means eleven; at first, it'll drive him nuts that no one understands what it's supposed to be - but then he'll embrace the name as an ironic symbol of how stupid people are. A complicated, misunderstood Villain... perfect!
Fun fact, MREs come in boxes of 12!
Ah okay, thanks
That's a point I haven't considered. It's a fairly easy task, but that's an option
Escape or death, those were the words drilled into my head as I was sent to hell. Escape or death. They were empty words really, nothing but a way to make permanent exile sound less of a human rights violation. Sure, I could be free someday but it's not like that's ever happened. Nobody has ever escaped from New Melbourne, not even the ones that were born there. It was nothing but a lawless camp on a wasteland of a planet, toxic dust clouds storm across boiling seas and even the most drinkable water isn't potable without boiling and straining it first. It's about as close to hell as was humanly possible and technically isn't even inhabitable.
The juddering of the prison transport slowing down broke my empty stare into nothingness. One of the guards called out to say that we were in orbit of the planet but where there should have been panic at the thought of my new home there was just apathy. I started to replay my life in my head, as if thinking about the past would bring it to the present or that I could somehow change the events that brought me here. I thought about my childhood, remembering the planets I'd lived on as a child. I'd give anything to see the lush green fields of Earth or the towering mountains of Prometheus VII again. I thought about my beautiful wife and best friend Ellen, how we'd met on my first day on Earth and quickly became inseparable. I thought about how happy I'd been when I proposed and how perfect she looked at our wedding. I thought of how many years of happy marriage we'd had before she began to get distant, before I caught her in bed with my best friend. It had been a crime of passion, anybody would have done the same. The betrayal was just too much to bear. Perhaps I went a little overboard but it's not like they couldn't identify the body. And it felt so good to just grip her throat and squeeze until she stopped moving.
I climbed into the tin can they called a transport pod with the beginning of a smile on my face. My old life might be over but I felt more free than ever.
Here on WritingPrompts a prompt is a starting point, but by no means do writers have to follow every part of it. A prompt is an idea to give you inspiration, but not something that has to be strictly followed
I would strongly suggest you read through the wiki before you continue to contribute to this subreddit.
Looks like 52%-55%, depending on when they were tracking, so we're both pretty close.
Oh shit if it's televised the fact that he loves 11 would be broadcast everywhere. They would make it insanely intense.
No, if white plays perfectly they should always be ahead of black.
This is a very specific checkmate often referred to as "The Fools Mate". It requires black to open a diagonal for his Queen, and for White to move pawn to g4 and either pawn to f3/f4 in any order, and for black to move pawn e7 and then Queen to h4, winning the game.
I'm sorry if it looks that way. To be honest, I wanted to get some easy writing in before I slept, and I spent a lot more time on the villain's background and personality than the punishment. But I promise everything I wrote I came up with on the spot. I didn't recycle anything.
In this case, white doesn't have to make two dumb moves: they have to make two very specific and dumb moves. The 4-move checkmate is more forgiving when it comes to your opponents moves
I'm curious, what led you to click this post then?
What's wrong with s&w knives? Genuine question. Never owned one.
I think it's 51%
Yeah another WP I think! About a guy with an obsession over shoe colors?
Each bullet is a piece of my soul... Each shot is a piece of me.
naa victor just marks himself with a tally mark for each victim this is more a calendar man type thing or maybe a twoface.
box number 11 was removed, not 11 boxes.
Bingo, who says it's even an actual program and not just a showrunner calling the shots? Like the Truman Show, you're gonna do what's more satisfying for the audience.
/sub/all and really cool and creative prompt.