Thread: What if... (Read the Rukles, first, please)

All right. So this is how this works: First person to post-that's me-asks a what if question. Next person needs to write a short story (100-1500) words based on the question. Then at the bottom of the post, ask another what-if question. Nest person writes next short story, and so forth.

So here's the first question: What if dogs could talk, think, and reason?

I appologize for the crudeness of this story, but I was just having fun :::::

As I suspected it was absolutely terrible. But, the smile on her face as I managed to squeeze down the crap encouraged me to finish off a plate and ask for seconds. The waiter looked at me like I was insane making me think that I was either turning green from food poisoning, or he was one of those humans who hadn’t gotten used to the fact that dogs had taken a few steps down the evolutionary path.

Well, later that evening I convinced her to come over to my house. She was thoroughly impressed by my display of obedience certificates adorning my office wall. It was while we were in my office that I decided to make my move.

I have never understood why humans go through this whole dramatic mating ritual. All we do his jump on and rip it up, and that is precisely what I did. Oh, and was it great. Poodles are the best man, the best! I have had Schnauzers and Chihuahuas, but nothing compares to the soft ass of a poodle. Their fur is just so buoyant and poofy that it helps you ‘spring’ into action.

I think it was that springy motion that made my stomach queasy. Before I knew it raw fish spewed on to her back. And, you won’t believe this, but the bitch didn’t notice! I guess that hair is good for something else; it is too thick to feel anything through!

Afterwards she left, complaining of a tooth ache. I figured she needed to shit as bad as I did. It was the last time I would see her; the last time I ate sushi.


What if people could breathe under water?

I pinwheeled backwards as the gunshot ripped through my calf, my scream lost to my range of hearing. Before I knew it, I had fallen off the dock and into the lake. Splash! Why was this person attacking me? Where was I? What had happened to my memories of the past four months? And WHO WAS I?!

I submerged, and gasped. What surprised me more was that gasping underwater didn't make me drown. I was so shocked, I might have drowned then, but then I remembered to breathe.

I must have superpowers, I thought. In wonderment, the pain of the gunshot nearly vanished from my mind. I swam silently underwater, then surfaced and pulled my assailant under. I thought I could hold him down until he drowned. After ten minutes without him drowning, I was completely freaked out. I crawled back to shore and ran as fast as I could with my leg injury and climbed into my car.

Pale-faced, I sped through eight lights to get to the emergency room.

***

"You'll be alright", the nurse told me. "Just don't move around too much for the next two weeks or so. The doctor cleaned up the gun shot wound very nicely."

"Thanks," I told her. "Wait-I have a question."

"Yes?" she asked impatiently.

"I was breathing underwater."

At first the nurse looked shocked, and then she regained control.

"Honey, that's a top level government secret. You're not supposed to know that."

"How come I couldn't breathe underwater before?"

"Because Iran just dropped a nuclear warhead here yesterday, permanently altering our chemical properties."

---

What if the Muslims and Jews finally learned to get along, respect each other, and celebrate their differences?

Sorry, I will be away until the 5th of August with no internet access, but will be very interested in seeing what this thread morphs into.

The game is still haves versus -nots, and I'm on-deck.

My grandfather wouldn't know the place, and I mean America. I don't know if he could take the shock of seeing his homeland as a third-world country. I can more readily imagine him retreating to his past of prosperity uncherished. Perhaps he'd buy a new sport-ute (the old slang feels strange on my tongue) and carpe the diem.

I took a moment to research the Rukles. They would have been Russians, if any had ever immigrated.

Better were my grandfather to assassinate a certain American businessman and ambassador who truly embraced the ideal of Mideast peace -- and actually made it real.

In that age, I too would have thought Carter Ford-Bush starry-eyed. Centuries-burnished hatreds, cherished by nomads whose social structure above the level of blood relations was so much vapor, did not yield to reason. Ford, never to be sufficently damned, ran around the end of reason.

I don't pretend to understand the Abolishment. I'd have to be a much better liar. Sometime in the middle of the Twenty-first Century, the eleven most influential leaders in the Arab world (the Eleven Sages) met at a site both holy and undisclosed. Ford's memoirs were deliberately vague, while rumor is yet rife. They abided a day. Home again, they meditated a year. Each had vowed silence through the nights. Through the days, they spoke of all things but their retreat.

Change was slow. First, provocation was abandoned. Then, reprisal was forbidden. Violence was forgiven, the victims succored by their own. Trade moved from black markets to bazaars in the sun. Slowly, but steadily, intermarriage burgeoned.

The inventiveness that bootstrapped the progress of nations returned with all of the energy and none of the malice of vengeance. In the cockpit of Civilization, firm hands resumed the yoke.

Malice is no prerequisite to the fall of nations. Indolence is sufficient. A decadent America cocked an ear, then an eye. Slowly, we turned away from the bouncy music. When we saw the juggernaut, the band went silent.

Then was it exposed, the truth of that mythical energy called "alternative". Decadence became unaffordable. Sweet crude became unobtainable as the Mideast declared its economic needs pre-emptive. Gasoline became a luxury product. Diesel was accepted to be a national priority, sequestered to the shipping industry. Railroads were restored as local truck fleets downsized so as to survive on methane fuel.

The craters of overdriven particle accelerators dot the landscape, to the confusion of far-future vulcanologists. To this day, the only practical fusion reactor is your wishing star. The current Eleven Sages see no need of it, and so the world's best-funded industrial research labs dedicate themselves to market development.

If they had fusion, they would not share it with the West. The redemption of of the Past Imperialists is far from complete. Ask any mullah. He will reaffirm Allah's determination that we have a long path ahead of us. Centuries certainly. More than a millenium, by a comfortable margin. Only by dedicating ourselves to submission to the will of Allah may the way be shortened that far, say the mullahs.

Sure. Still, I have joined the American Hajj. We journey to Mecca this summer, where the eldest son of each of the Sages will hold forth in his own mosque. The ideal supplicant will fall to his knees at the city gates, not to rise until I have fasted and abased myself through all eleven holy sites and exited again through those same gates.

The various hajras are essential to the ever-fragile peace and unity of the world's leading region. A region it remains. Western sophistries of federation or other forms of greater unity are reviled here. So long as each of the Sages in his role of economic leader prospers no more than his fellows, and each in the role of religious primate reaps an equal share of devotion, peace is possible. The rivalries simmer, but do not boil. The details do not matter.

I know where to apply the heat. And how much, about ten ounces of Semtex plastic explosive. The Fourth Sage will be certain of the identity of his son's assassin, as certain as he will be wrong about the Ninth Sage. I know that I won't be around to see the bloodbath, but I won't have to be. I smile these days at any little thing. It will be easier to hide the smile later, if I exhaust the muscles of my face until the timer runs down to zero.

------

I can only choose who doesn't run the world. If you could choose who does, aside from Christ (or Lucifer), who would you choose?

The day we awaited arrived, the day the votes would finally be cast. Which one of them would be chosen? Heated debated wherever you looked, media predicting the outcomes, no consensus. Who would they trust to rule them all?
The tall young man, popular among the ladies, known only for his sports and his rowdy drunken behavior? People saw him as an idol, worshipped him as a god because he was living what so many wanted. But did this make him good enough?
What about the old man, the one who had been president in the past, had seen wars, had seen failures, had seen victories. Had experience in leadership. But he was also known for his corruptness, his selfishness. He had more experience than anyone else, but did this make him worthy?
Then there was the middle aged woman, a feminist on all accounts, loved by the independent women of the world, the role model the world encouraged young women to look up to. But she put herself ahead of all else, her success above even her family. She had recently divorced her husband over money issues. Was she, the role model for women, the best person?
And then there was the young woman on the end, the one often forgotten. She had astounded teachers and professors with her academic achievements, and when the office was opened for candidates she was prodded into the chance by friends who knew she could care for them all better than anyone else. It was known she had a past, a difficult one. This appealed to others who could understand, but played against her for the posh and the perfect. She was far from selfish, she was the most caring person her friends and family could imagine, troubled yes but that only helped her to understand more. She was overlooked by many, because she wasn’t pretty, she wasn’t famous, she hadn't stood for the things the other candidates had, she was simply a down to earth girl who wanted the best for her world. The first down to earth candidate in decades…
I knew who I was going to vote for.


Edit: would help if i put a question at the end lol.
What if all ISPs were jammed with a virus, keeping them offline for prolonged (week or two) period of time and there were no possible way to access the internet or any internet programs (msn, video confrencing, forums) for anyone, including military and politicians?

"No! No! No!"


The electricity had gone down moments earlier and now his laptop had dropped its connection. "Ali K" tried dialing the ISP again. Nothing. He had been uploading a video for two hours, and there the status bar stayed stuck at 80%.


K shut down his laptop and began nibbling on his fingernails. The thousand riyal prize could go a long way - he'd finally show his family that he could be counted on. Or could he? His video had been completed a week ago, but he dickered about for several days. Not even editing - just waiting and thinking and daydreaming. Now the deadline is here and events completely out of his control had stymied him.


No more. From now on he would take control of his own life. He turned his laptop back on and loaded the video onto a jump drive.


"I'm going to the store, mum."


She protested, but not too vehemently. She would have been more insistent if she knew that he was heading the other direction, towards the local internet cafe. They had generators and more secure network connections.


All in all, the route was fairly safe. There had been very few bombs since the Americans stopped patrolling the town, and it was far too hot a day for any right minded sniper to be lying in wait atop a building. In fact, the day, though unbearably hot, was quite calm. A few vendors had ventured out into the streets and children were playing in the shade.


When K turned on to the city's main street, however, his heart sunk. His mind had been wandering and he hadn't bothered to look around the corner first. Ahead he saw a checkpoint, and before he could react they saw him too. For a moment, the world disappeared, save for the chirping of a sparrow and the thumping of a distant helicopter. K considered turning back, but what then? The men at the checkpoint could easily jump in their truck and run him down. Best to talk your way out of it, he reasoned.


If he could know for certain whether they were police of militiamen then he wouldn't have any trouble, but things weren't often that simple. What's more, for a teenage guy to be the wrong religious denomination would not end up good. In that case best to hope it was the police who asked - then you could die quickly.


On the other hand, lying to the checkpoints was so common that you were usually given a second chance to prove your religion. In that sense, the checkpoints were actually quite pointless - why not just round up people randomly? Of course, the gangs would lose their last pretense or justification if they did.


K decided that he would lie. If they took him away, he would explain that he had guessed wrong and to prove it would have them call his cousin, a board member at a nearby temple.


At the checkpoint, K was asked for identification and he produced his student ID card. Fortunately he had a rather generic name and lived in a mixed neighborhood. They asked him to curse various religious figures of a thousand years past. K recited quite imaginative curses for some, and showed disgust at being asked to curse others. After a short while, two of the men consulted each other and quickly motioned a third to circle around K.


At that moment, the distant thumping quickly gathered force and a Blackhawk could be seen above the buildings, quickly approaching. The men manning the checkpoint scattered as the helicopter skimmed overhead, and K darted out of the street. Just as quickly the helicopter left.


K hurried on another mile to the internet cafe, and left the bright heat of the street. Inside, K slumped into a chair - blue, black swallowing his peripheral vision and his heart pounding.


Everything was quiet. No hum of computers, no rumble from a generator.


"Sorry - no internet right now," a bored-looking tech drawled, "everything's down in the area. You can try back tonight but likely will be down for a couple days."


K almost cried. He could feel it welling up in his chest.


After a moment he walked back into the street and headed home.


-Frank Blissett


Q: It's cliche to ask "what would you do if you had a short while to live?". Instead, "What would you do if your [character's] significant other had only a short while to live?"

Conductor Michael Schmidt bowed to the audience in Carnegie Hall and promptly received a standing ovation. Sweat dampened his brow, but his smile was magnificent. The orchestra cheered him on and the flute soloist handed him a huge bouquet of red roses.

That night, driving home, his wife, Stephanie, was showering him with compliments.

"You did a beautiful job this evening, Michael. I loved the symphony! I remember when you were writing it a year ago, in the bathtub." Stephanie giggled in her red evening gown. Michael only sighed and didn't reply. The air was thick with tension. As they drove further away from Carnegie Hall, Stephanie grew more silent and distant. Despite what People magazine had said only a month ago, their marriage was not stable, or happy. In fact, it was completely the opposite.


Michael parked the car in the garage and didn't bother looking to see if Stephanie had followed him. His cell phone rang while his key was still in the door. "(expletive)!" he muttered as he saw the number on the caller ID.

"Who is it?" Stephanie called. "NBC again?"

"Hello?" he said as quietly as he could.

"Hi, Michael," Lola's sweet voice cooed. "I loved your symphony this evening. You were so wonderful. I'd like to come over and have some...us time, if you don't mind."

"Lola, this is not the best time." Michael said through his teeth, jamming the key into the door, and shoving it open with a violence that sent Stephanie scurrying inside immediately.

"Anytime with you is the best time," Lola said in that syrupy voice of hers. God, I wish I could spend forever with her, Michael thought, but didn't dare to say it out loud.

"Lola, I have to go."

"Oh no you don't! You do not hang up on me! Michael Stewart Schmidt, you answer me this minute!!! I do everything for you!!! I would do anything to be with you forever, but your (expletive) wife Stephanie is always getting in the way!!!!" Her voice rose to a previously unexplored pitch.

"Listen, Lola, I'm going to have to call you later." Little did he know he would regret ever saying those words.

---

The next day, Michael woke up late at ten in the morning, and turned over in bed only to see that Stephanie was still sleeping. He frowned. Usually, she was up at the crack of dawn, off to meet with her society friends.

"Stephanie are you okay?" he asked. She didn't respond. "Stephanie?" He shook her and not only did she move, but her shoulder was cold and stiff. "Oh god, Stephanie, what's wrong?!" He grabbed the phone and dialed 911. "OH MY GOD MY WIFE IS (EXPLETIVE) NOT BREATHING!!!!!!!"

By the time the ambulance had arrived, she had stopped moving altogether. The doctor pronounced her dead within minutes. Michael was sad, of course, but a small part in the back of his mind told him he should be happy because now he could spend all his time with Lola. He felt a bit guilty about that though, of course, but said nothing. As the paramedics took Stephanie's body away, Michael threw himself into his car and drove to his studio, a few blocks away, and drowned himself in his music.

Angrily hurling himself onto the piano bench, the music just seemed to flow from within. A rising tidal wave on A sharp minor with as much rage as the inferno inside him slowly ebbing into a weaker E minor with a melancholy melody. He went through G flat minor, and C sharp minor, all the way through D minor. After eight hours, he finally resolved with a crescendo in A minor, landing on the highest A on the piano before falling asleep.

When he awoke, the simple rays of sunlight streaming in through the windows told him he had been there all day and night. Oh my god, I slept here! he thought.

He stomped out of the practice room and drove back to his house to find it surrounded by yellow crime scene tape and police personnel. Suddenly, he was more anxious than he had been at performing at Carnegie for the first time. He walked to the perimeter of his property and tapped the broad-shouldered detective on the shoulder.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, a sick feeling growing in his stomach.

"Your wife's death was deemed a homicide. We are now investigating. The cause of death was poisoning. She, or someone else, had forced a cyanide capsule into her mouth."

"Do you know who did it?" Michael cried.

The detective gave him a sidelong glance. "No, sir, that's why we're investigating."

---

Later in the day, Michael found he had been named a person of interest in the case.

"Stephanie and I were the only two people in my house after the concert. I'm sure of it. I locked the doors, and set the alarm. I do so every night." Michael told the detective, whose name was Thomas Harding.

Detective Harding stared at Michael before asking "Does anyone else have keys to your house, or know the alarm code?"

Michael thought about it and only one other name came to his mind. Lola. Oh god, no, he thought, remembering that she was the director of a lab that kept samples of cyanide among other things, but in the end, he told Detective Harding. "I'm an honest man," he said adding in his mind, except for cheating on my wife, who loved me until the day I started cheating.

---

The next day it was all over the news and paparazzi magazines, that Michael Schmidt had been having an affair and his wife has been murdered by his Significant Other. Lola had been arrested and confessed within hours. They had allowed him to listen to the recording of the confession. Lola's voice, usually so warm and cheery, was cold and devoid of any emotion.

"I killed Stephanie Schmidt because she was simply in the way. I removed a cyanide capsule from the laboratory I direct, and drove to the Schmidt house at 2 in the morning, where I entered and administered the capsule to Stephanie, the (expletive). I waited until I was sure she was dead before leaving. Are you happy, now, Harding? My life would have been picturesque, except were it for you. You better learn to sleep with your eyes open, mister."

At that point, Detective Harding had turned the recorder off and offered Michael a glass of water. He refused politely.

---

Lola's trial was a media circus, with big name news stations, CNN, NBC, filming as well as local stations and paparazzi reporters. Lola McLaughlin was found guilty of one count of murder in the first degree, and one count of conspiracy to commit murder. Michael slumped in his seat, barely paying attention as the judge dismissed the court for the day. Lola, how could you? he thought. But she didn't even look at him.

Lola's pretty face was impassive, as though she was oblivious to what was going on.

At the sentencing hearing, the judge gave her the death penalty. Ouch, Michael thought. Lola, you were so stupid, so very stupid. The sentence was to be carried out in only three months.

---

Michael went to visit Lola on death row, but she wouldn't respond to his touch, or to his words.

"Lola, listen to me!" Michael cried. "I love you!"

"Then why do you hate me?" she asked.

"I don't hate you!"

"Then why do you act like it?"

"How am I acting like it?!" he exclaimed, exasperated.

"You do not trust my judgment."

"Of course I don't! You're on death row, for god's sake."

"But still, you do not think that I did what was best for us."

"What do you mean?! You're going to die, Lola. That's not the best way to get us together."


She gave him a crafty smile. "But you do not know me. I am not going to die." That got his attention.

"What do you mean?"

"I am going to escape. And you are going to come with me, and we will go away to some exotic place without an extradition treaty where we will live forever together."

Michael stared at his girlfriend in shock.

"You can't be serious. You can't do that."

"Yes, I can," Lola said. "You will have to trust me on that, and you will, will you not?"

TO BE CONTINUED, EVENTUALLY...

---
What if YOU as an author disappeared, and all your characters became real? No one has any memory of you, none of your writing, or books, or publications, or property exists, and if it does, it belongs to someone else. No one has any memory of you except you and you are trapped as one of your characters......

Originally Posted by Treali Storm

---
What if YOU as an author disappeared, and all your characters became real? No one has any memory of you, none of your writing, or books, or publications, or property exists, and if it does, it belongs to someone else. No one has any memory of you except you and you are trapped as one of your characters......

This is too hard! I think I'll need a few days...someone should try this first.