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AutophobeX49923 sat at his desk. It was dim in the windowless room, the only light coming from the glow of his computer screen. His eyes barely blinked as they darted to and fro; scanning the monitor. He was searching the Google Database for information on life at the turn of the millennium.
He'd been shocked at first, but his initial reaction was replaced by an ignorant contempt for those who had lived a hundred and fifty years ago. Making friends was performed in person, and people travelled from their homes to learn. The fact that it was often frowned upon to meet people in person, having only known them from the internet had sent tremors of disgust down his spine.
Nowadays everyone met on the internet. AutophobeX49923 had joined a few dating lists, and had as a result came into contact with someone who was to become his girlfriend. He'd been going out with her for eighteen months. He was considering asking her to marry him, but they would have to meet each other in person. He wasn'
ShadowsThe Lord sat high upon his throne. The skulls of those slain by his terrible hand lay in hills of bone. Dervishes formed wailing queues that coursed through the valleys that divided the skull mounds. Their voices were accompanied by the chink of the barbed chains that dug into their tormented grey skin. The tortured masses were imprisoned to a none-life traipsing through the Lord's cavernous subterranean palaces.
Black hided beasts scurried over the skulls, shaking loose the heads of the fallen and causing avalanches that envelop the dervishes. They were the spies of the Lord, their multi-eyed heads swinging back and forth, seeking any source of light.
The Shadow Lord was unbeaten in battle. There was no honest man of the day who did not live in fear the Lord's designs; lest it involve his addition to the hordes of the dark. The Lord was unbeaten in death, he used the shadows to do his bidding, to protect him from the pathetic beings that depended so much on the sun.
The Lord sat with
Battling a Human TideThe accumulated stink of life was unbearable. Jackson put his hand over his dust mask and fought the urge to vomit. The faces of the refugees stared up at him; each one was different, but had the same half-starved grime covered expression of fear and confusion. It plastered on every face, be they baby, grandpa or mother.
He couldn't stand any more. The hatch clanged when he brought it down above him, and he peered into the periscope.
"How bad is it?" asked the gunner.
"You don't have any idea."
"On a scale of one to ten?"
"Minus one hundred."
The gunner fell silent. He was a curious person, always quizzing Jackson on what the commander could see. The aiming scope of a gun was hardly the ideal means for taking in the outside view.
It was hot inside the armoured vehicle, and sweat prickled Jackson's back. He could hear the driver muttering an endless stream of profanities. They were trying to make their way by road to a nearby ridge, but so far it had been like trying to row agai
2095Mary sat in her doorway and looked out at the sunset. It was incredible. Livid green merged with the horizon, and garish yellow and artificial pink lines rose into the sky. The few clouds above the setting sun were made sinister with dark red tint, that reminded Mary sickeningly of coagulated blood. A hundred years ago people would have gawped at the sight, and experts would have argued over the cause of the phenomenon.
It was no phenomenon in this day; a regular occurrence and everyone knew the cause of the colours.
Mary took off her sunglasses and placed them on the table. She walked out of her hut. It wasn't safe to look outside without eye protection, and it was too hot to leave the shade during daylight.
The air was still warm, and brought back as always, the recollection of removing the lid of a pan of boiling water. The short transition between shade and open air brought a change of temperature, and an increase in humidity. She took short breaths as her body acclimatised to the
HitmanThe hitman had been waiting for two hours and thirty three minutes. He had watched every minute tick by on the digital clock that hung on the target's kitchen wall. He was sitting hidden behind the lee of the fridge. He only moved once; take remove a speck of dust from his gun.
The hitman knew everything. He knew what his mother was called, and that she liked yellow roses, that his mother said his father had died when he was seven. That he had three pairs of black underwear, four grey, and two navy blue; he favoured the navy blue ones. He wore odd socks, but only with opposite colours.
Stir fry was his favourite food, and he hated day-time TV. The target was twenty-nine, and single, and had been for five years, two months and eighteen days. The target marked each day on his calendar, and still had a photo under his pillow.
He knew that the target had gone for his weekly swimming session, and would come back with the food for his evening meal. Then park his car in the drive, and walk in
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