Cooked

My wife is the head chef of the Washington D.C. Lindel Hotel restaurant..

I take it from your lack of reaction that you're not up to date on your world class dining options. Believe me, her having that role is a huge deal. It's one of the highest profile chef jobs in the world.

And thus, my diet sucks, I eat mostly grilled cheeses and semi-random slow cooker stews. She doesn't have energy to cook here.

And before you say anything, she doesn't let me cook, I do it all wrong. She'd rather eat crap she makes than my cooking.

The Ultimate Spell

It was the most powerful spell I knew. The most powerful spell anyone ever knew. It was my ultimate last resort, the thing I would do only if the alternative was certain death.

I knew what it was supposed to do, but obviously I couldn't test it out.

Until today.

The hired swords were ill-prepared for an ambush. The bastard had a battleaxe to my throat, when I cast the spell.

The universe undid itself, then reran through the past million years over, going slightly differently.

Until I got back to where I was, with a longspear at my throat.

The Wind

The wind blows colder when the sun shines upon blood.

I've seen plenty of battlefields, where all that remains of those willing to lay down their lives for their flag are laid bodies and no flag.

There's a wind that only blows across such places, that chills you to the bone, no matter how you hide from it. A wind that carries upon it the weight of every death caused by generals not on the field, plotting tactics across paper.

I know you the wind well. It follows me everywhere. And I add to it a lot every single day.

Retirement

He walked into my office.

"So I just quit."

I looked up, confusion on my face.

"From the resource committee?"

"From my whole job."

"Why?"

"I've realised that I can't waste my life here pushing papers and sitting in meaningless meetings!"

I considered this.

"And that's fair, but I feel that you're forgetting the whole 'money is required to survive' aspect of society here in your little revelation."

"No no, I've thought it out. I need you to transfer all possible corporate funds to the following account; 4688-"

"What? No!"

"I'll send you half afterwards."

"What was the account number?"

Chopping Down A Mountain

Every day, I climb the mountain.

It was there, after all, and it wasn't like I was busy doing anything else with my time.

It took me 4 hours to get to the top, and 2 and a half to get down, thanks to gravity.

But I was shaving those numbers, every day. Beyond the handholds and hitching points I didn't need to make every time, I took my pickaxe and shovel, and spent that other hour and a half taking down the top.

One day, there won't be a mountain left. And only I'd have ever truly climbed it.

The Database

Every day another few living citizens of Earth that weren't newborns were processed into the Database, their data entered and ran through all past crimes and outstanding issues, to look for matches.

Pretty soon John Smith, presumably not his real name, was the last one left, as he kept running.

But there was only so much rainforest and ocean to hide in, and eventually he was caught, and brought in for processing.

Where, to the surprise of everyone, he came up clean.

The most surprised person was John Smith, he assumed he'd forgotten his crimes.

But so had everyone else.

Form 628-D58

I landed heavily on a pile of papers which scattered about.

"I hope you're going to pick those up!"

I looked over, seeing a small man sitting at a desk, filing paperwork.

"And you are?"

He sighed, not looking up.

"Do you have any idea how many times you would have destroyed the universe if it wasn't for me?"

"Uh, twice?"

He sighed louder.

"Three hundred and sixty-five times! Each one involving a pile of paperwork the size of... the one you just landed on."

"Oh.

Thank you?"

"If you want to thank me-"

"I can't stop-"

"Get a pen."