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Vancouver Off-Topic / Current EventsThe off-topic forum for Vancouver, funnies, non-auto centered discussions, WORK SAFE. While the rules are more relaxed here, there are still rules. Please refer to sticky thread in this forum.
You were on your way home when you died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.
Hmm, that reminds me of a theory I came up with that the only person that exists in this world is us, and everyone and everything else is our imagination.
Not sure if it's been proposed before, but whatever.
__________________
Quote:
Owner of Vansterdam's 420th thanks. OH YEAUHHH.
Quote:
Originally Posted by 89blkcivic
Did I tell you guys black is my favourite colour? My Ridgeline is black. My Honda Fit is black. Wish my dick was black........ LOL.
pretty good, i went to the site after i read it, this one's pretty good too
The Chef
“Doris?” the doctor said.
“Hmm?”
“Doris, do you know where you are?”
“Certainly,” Doris replied. “I’m in a hospital.”
“Good, good. Do you remember what happened?”
Doris furrowed her brow. “Not all of it, no… I think there was an explosion?”
“Yes, that’s right,” the doctor confirmed. “You were very lucky, Doris. Your father’s entire kitchen was destroyed by the explosion. It’s a miracle that you survived with only minor burns.”
“I supposed it is,” Doris smiled.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Are you my doctor?” Doris guessed.
“That’s right. I’m Doctor Mitchell.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” Doris said politely.
“We’ve met a few times before, actually,” the doctor said. “You’ve been my patient for almost a week. Your memories are a bit jumbled.”
“Oh, I see,” Doris said. “Well that can’t be good.”
“You’re in fine physical shape, Doris. Nothing to worry about. You’re just a little confused. You had quite a shock to your system. Do you remember anything from after the explosion?”
“Um… no. Not really. I remember sirens, and men lifting me on to, well, I guess it must have been a gurney. Then it gets hazy.”
“That’s all right. It’ll come back to you. How about immediately before the explosion?”
“Hmm,” Doris said. “Well I remember being at my father’s house. I hadn’t seen him in some time and I’d gone over for a visit. I don’t remember the details, but I remember he wanted me to cook for him. I’m a professional chef, you see.”
“A chef,” to doctor said.
“Yes, indeed. I’ve been excellent at cooking my whole life. Ever since I was a little girl.”
“I see. Go on.”
“I never found Mr. Right,” Doris continued, “and in this modern era a woman doesn’t need a man to be complete, anyway. So I had to make due on my own. And cooking was the only thing I was good at.”
“May I ask, when did you first start cooking?”
“Well,” Doris pondered, “I guess it all started around the time my mother died. Once she was gone, my father insisted I start cooking for him. He said that he was earning the money to maintain the household, and I had to pull my weight.”
“How old were you at the time?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven?” The doctor said. “That’s pretty young to be cooking.”
Doris shrugged. “It was no different at eleven than it is at thirty-five. I was a little smaller and things were harder to reach. But with experience, I got to be as good as any adult.”
“How often did your father make you cook for him?”
“Pretty much every evening. On weekends, he’d want lunch as well. Occasionally he’d want breakfast, but usually not.”
“Did you resent it?”
Doris looked back at the doctor. “Funny you should mention it. Yes. Yes, I did resent it. I didn’t like being forced in to that role, and I didn’t like his arrogant presumption that it was my job to do it. Yes, I resented it.”
“What did you do about it?” the doctor asked.
“Well, I left home just as soon as I turned 18. I went out in to the world to make my way. That was almost 20 years ago. Ironically, the thing I was running away from was the only saleable skill I had. So I became a chef.”
“How did that work out?”
“At first, not well,” Doris admitted. “I was working in terrible venues; People didn’t care about professionalism or presentation. They just wanted a quick meal and to be on their way. I hated it. But I pressed on.
“Then I learned how to market myself. I found the right places to advertise, and made the right contacts. I started moving up in the world of cooking. There is no shortcut, I can assure you. Becoming an expert at your profession, be it chef or doctor, requires a lot of hard work.
“In time, I earned a name for myself. I became a commodity. People would call me and offer me jobs, instead of me asking them. I started charging more and more, and people were willing to pay. I would do private parties, large groups, even invite premiere clients and their friends over for a custom meal in my own home. After all, the business they got for me was well worth giving up an evening for.”
“And during this time,” the doctor said, “you never visited your father?”
“No,” Doris said. “I guess I still resented him,” she said. “Irrational, I know. But there you have it. Emotions aren’t always rational.”
“So how did you end up at your father’s house the day of the explosion?”
“Well, I decided it was time to drop by,” Doris explained. “I figured I couldn’t hold a grudge forever. It had been 20 years. Maybe things didn’t go well for us back in the old days, but I was an adult now. And I figured I at least owed him a visit or two. He did raise me, after all.”
“And how’d that go?”
“Well, like I said, the first thing he wanted was for me to cook him a meal. I’ll be honest, it kind of made me angry. After 20 years, he hadn’t changed. Not at all. Not one little bit. I was pretty disappointed.”
“So what did you do?”
“I went to the kitchen,” Doris said. “What else could I do? He followed me in there. We chatted for a bit while I got ready to cook him something. It was a gas stove, and I must have inadvertently turned on the gas while talking to my father, then forgotten that I did so. Then I turned on another burner and tried to light it. That’s pretty much the last thing I remember.”
Doctor Mitchell leaned back in his chair. “Doris, can I ask you a question that may seem completely out of the blue?”
Doris shrugged, “Whatever you like, doctor.”
He took a deep breath, then let it out uneasily. Looking her in the eyes, he asked “What’s the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon?”
“What?” Doris said, taken by surprise.
“A teaspoon and a tablespoon? What’s the difference?”
“A teaspoon is a spoon used to stir tea,” Doris explained, “while a tablespoon is used for other eating uses, such as soups, custards, and desserts.”
Doctor Mitchell rubbed his brow. “No, Doris. Teaspoon and tablespoon are both units of measurement used by chefs all over the world. Any professional chef would know that. Even ordinary people who cook at home know that. You’re not a chef, Doris. You never have been.”
Doris snorted. “Well that’s just ridiculous. Of course I am. I’ve been doing it my whole life!”
“No you haven’t,” Doctor Mitchell said. “I have your criminal record. You’ve been arrested for prostitution seven times over the last 20 years.”
“Prosti-?” Doris stammered, incredulous. “That’s utterly absurd! You’ve obviously mixed up my file with someone else’s. What kind of hospital is this!?”
“It’s a mental hospital, Doris. You killed your father in that explosion, and you were trying to kill yourself, too.”
“No!” Doris yelled, struggling at her restraints. “That’s not true! I’m a chef!”
“You transposed sex with cooking. Ever since you were eleven. It was a defensive mechanism. It was the only way you were able to survive.”
“NO!” Doris screamed.
“But you were strong,” Doctor Mitchell said. “Stronger than he thought. Strong enough to run away, strong enough to survive by selling yourself, and strong enough to come back and get revenge for what he’d done to you.”
“NNNG!” Doris groaned.
“He’s dead,” Doctor Mitchell said, “He can’t ever hurt you again. He’s dead and you killed him. You got revenge. You won.”
Doris howled a primal scream so loud Doctor Mitchell worried she would permanently damage her vocal chords. He quickly pulled out a needle and injected her.
As she slipped in to unconsciousness, he made a note in his case log.
“We’ll get you through this,” Doctor Mitchell said to her unconscious form. “You survived things that would break normal people, and I’ll get you through the rest of the way. I promise.”
He checked his notes. Two days ago, she didn’t remember the explosion at all. Yesterday, she remembered the explosion, but not that it was at her father’s house. Tomorrow, she’d remember more. He was sure of it.
“I promise,” he said again as he left her room and locked the door.
I noticed that in the first one, the narrative was odd, and explained in the end, the way the whole thing is I said, you said.As its written, it feels as though the narrative has you as both god and the dead guy.
Author’s Note: I wrote this some time ago and posted it here. Later on, someone posted the entirety of the text to 4chan without my name, and then reddit posted an image of that page. Somewhere along the way the authorship got lost in the shuffle. So to be clear: Yes, I wrote this. No, it’s not a repost from somewhere else. This page is the original source.
The Egg
By: Andy Weir
You were on your way home when you died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
I'm not fully understanding about the "re-reading" part though.
I mean besides the obvious that it's more clear what happens when you read it the second time,
but I think I'm not experiencing something I'm supposed to.
Anyone care to explain?
__________________ __________________________________________________ Last edited by AzNightmare; Today at 10:09 AM
I'm not fully understanding about the "re-reading" part though.
I mean besides the obvious that it's more clear what happens when you read it the second time,
but I think I'm not experiencing something I'm supposed to.
Anyone care to explain?
Spoiler!
Basically you frame her life experiences differently when you substitute her cooking profession with prostitution. You now see how her father sexually abused her at age 11 and how her life as sex worker progresses throughout the years.
I'm not fully understanding about the "re-reading" part though.
I mean besides the obvious that it's more clear what happens when you read it the second time,
but I think I'm not experiencing something I'm supposed to.
Anyone care to explain?
Basically what JSunu said. The first time you read it, it's just another story, seemingly about a chef who brought herself to the top from a father who wanted a free meal
Upon rereading it, the entire story has pretty much changed from any old story about a chef, to a sexually abused child who runs away from home, and not knowing what else to do, prostitutes herself
here's another one i liked. not as deep as the Egg and the Chef, but it was a pretty good read
Access
Holding a cup of coffee in one hand and several folders in the other, he dragged his chair out from behind his desk and plopped down in to it.
Sipping the all important morning brew, he opened the first of the folders and read the summary on the front page. It was a minor matter, but something he’d need to deal with eventually. Some things just couldn’t be delegated to subordinates.
Glancing over at the ornate clock on his large oaken desk, he shook his head at the time. 7am. A later start than he would have liked; he’d probably have to work until midnight again.
“Oh hey,” she said sleepily. “You’re here.”
He looked up. “Mm?”
She lay on one of the two fine couches that adorned his office. Stretching, she yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Damn, what time is it?”
“Seven,” he said, returning to his reading.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” she groused. “If I knew you’d be in this damn early, I wouldn’t have crashed here.”
He shrugged. “So go back to sleep.”
“Nah,” she said. “I need to talk to you. Can I have some of your coffee?”
He sighed. “Look, whoever you are-”
“Rachel,” she said.
“Hi Rachel. I’m very busy. I’ve only got an hour to finish this stuff before a bunch of meetings that last the rest of the day. It was a godlike feat just to get my own secretary to leave me alone for this hour. Now what do you want?”
“Well, that’s kind of complicated,” she said, sitting in a chair across the desk from him. “I think we can help each other.”
“Oh really? What’s a teen-ager going to do for me?”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“Good for you.”
She leaned back, putting her feet up on his desk. “Thing is, I have a super power.”
“This desk is an antique, you know,” he said.
“Oh I know what you’re thinking. I’m just some crazy girl off the street. But I really do have a power. Or something. Don’t know what you’d call it.”
“Seriously, it’s like two hundred years old. Get your feet off it.”
“I first noticed it back when I was a kid,” she continued, putting her hands behind her neck.
He groaned and put his file down.
“My parents were drunks. Both of them. They didn’t beat me or anything, but they were drunks. Lowlifes. You know?
“Anyway, Mom liked hard liquor at home. Dad was more of a social drunk, so he’d head down to the bar. Everyone liked him.
“He’d bring me along. He knew Mom would be passed out soon, and he figured a bar was safer for a ten year old girl than an apartment with no supervision. It was cool. I was kind of a mascot there.
“One time, the bar got raided by the cops for letting the local high school punks in without checking IDs. I was there at the time. Nobody cared about me being there, but they wrote up the bar for all the teen-agers. Technically, the cops should have written them up for me, too. That should have been a clue, but I was too young to pick up on it.”
“Pick up on what?” He interrupted.
“You’ll see,” she said.
He rolled his eyes.
“When I was twelve, Mom sent me to 7-11 to get her a bottle of dinner. I knew they wouldn’t sell me liquor, but she gave me candy money, too. So who was I to argue?
“When I got there, the place was being robbed. We lived in a pretty crappy neighborhood; it wasn’t that uncommon. A guy in a mask had the owner down on the floor, holding a shotgun to his head. The robber looked at me, then went back to threatening the shopkeeper.
“I said ‘Hey, mind if I take some booze?’ He just said ‘whatever’. So I did. And some candy, too. Then I left.”
“Huh,” he said. “You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you or take you hostage. Still not seeing a super power.”
“Hush,” she said. “When I was 14, I was in the best clique. No angst-filled high school years for me. I ended up friends with the most popular girls in school and dated the popular boys. It was awesome. Kids all over that school would have given anything to be in that group. You know what I did to get in? I sat at their table.
“Just, you know, at lunch time. I sat at their table and nobody told me not to. Eventually they started talking to me and got to like me. That sort of thing. Anyone else who got within a mile of the table got extreme bitch treatment if they were a girl, or massive wedgies if they were a boy.”
“So,” he said, folding his arms. “Your super power is to be popular?”
“Don’t be an ass,” she said. “Anyway, in high school, I wasn’t the Virgin Mary, you know? Around 16 I starting having my share of fun with the popular boys. Nothing outrageous. But a string of boyfriends during my junior and senior years.
“One time, I was with my boyfriend when his mom came home unexpectedly. I should point out she was a hard-core Christian who thought her boy was a perfect angel. We were ‘busy’ when she got home so we didn’t notice till she opened the bedroom door. All we had time to do was throw a blanket over ourselves.
“There we were, both of us in his bed, staring back at her. Know what she did? She told us she’d gotten Chinese take-out and headed back downstairs. Weirdest experience of my life, up to that point.”
“She probably didn’t know how to react,” he speculated. “I bet her son caught hell for it later.”
“Nope. She never minded me being there. I could come over any time I wanted. Till I dumped him. He was a loser, trust me.
“I barely graduated from high school. No college would take me and it wasn’t like I could pay for it anyway. Mom and Dad figured I was ready to join the real world and stop being a drain on them. So I got a job waitressing. Then I lost it because I was an unreliable smart-ass who never showed up for work. That was the beginning of my ‘homelessness’ career.
“It wasn’t too bad. I would do short-term jobs from time to time and I lived in a tent. Anyway, one day it was raining buckets and the wind was like 40 miles an hour. The tent rode off in to the sunset. So now I was in a downpour and had no tent.
“I decided I was going to get out of the damn rain no matter what. I’d break in to the first house I saw and surrender to whoever was in it. I’d be out of the rain right away, then the cops would come take me to a nice dry cell.
“So that’s what I did. I wasn’t quiet or subtle. I bashed in a window with a garbage can, scraped the shards out of the way with the lid, then climbed in.
“I stumbled through the dark living room on to a couch and waited. About ten seconds later, the lights came on. A terrified-looking man with a baseball bat stared at me from the doorway, his wife peeking out from behind him.
“Once they saw me, they both let out a heavy sigh of relief and went back to bed.”
“Wait,” he said. “What?”
“Yup.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Right,” she nodded.
“Did you know them from before or something?”
“Nope. First time we’d ever met. Can I continue?”
“Uh, sure, ok.”
“So anyway, I stayed at their house for weeks and they never complained. They even chatted with me. I can’t say we became friends, in fact I could tell they resented me being there. But they never kicked me out.
“That’s when I started to realize something. I’d never been kicked out. Of anywhere. Ever.
“I decided to put it to the test. Something small to start with. I went to a bank. There was a line. I walked right to the front of it. Nobody complained. I just cut in front of like 20 people, everyone was fine with it. All right, on to Phase 2.
“They had a security door where the tellers could go in and out. I waited by it, then followed one of the tellers when they buzzed her in. Nobody cared! I even said ‘hi’ to everyone and introduced myself.
“So I grabbed a handful of money from one of the drawers. ‘Hey, what the hell are you doing?’ someone said. ‘Oh, my bad’ I said, putting the money back. ‘I’m new.’ Then everyone was happy again.”
“Seriously?” He asked.
“Yeah, seriously.”
“Cause it sounds like bullshit,” he said suspiciously.
“I did some more tests over the next few days. As far as I can tell, everywhere I go, everyone thinks I’m supposed to be there.”
“Yup,” he said. “Definitely smelling the bullshit now.”
“But it’s not a free ride. People think I’m supposed to be there, but I can only get away with doing things they expect. I stole some drugs from a pharmacy, just to see if I could. I walked right behind the counter, got an empty pill container, and filled it with Valium. The pharmacists didn’t give me a second look. People who are supposed to be there are expected to fill pill bottles. But people at a bank are not expected to grab handfuls of cash. See?”
“See? No. Smell? Yes.”
“I figure I could work for you.”
“See what I did there?” He pointed out, “I was talking about smelling the bullshit.”
“I need money. Give me a job with a good salary. I’ll spy for you.”
“On who?”
“Whoever you want! I’m sure you’ve got all kinds of people you’d like to spy on. I could just go wherever they are and sit quietly. Maybe take notes. Whatever you want.”
He sighed. “If your delusion really were true, then yes, I could use someone like you,” he agreed. “But come on. You expect me to believe you can waltz in to high security areas, past countless guards? And that you can chat with people there and they won’t know anything’s wrong? Can you provide any proof? Anything at all?”
She leaned forward. “I don’t know, Mr. President. You tell me.”
TL;DR that if you want to, but like the other 2, if you're just bored and want a good read, it's there
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