Right now, look at the clock. The current time will determine what kind of story you are going to write.
The current HOUR will determine the MAIN CHARACTER of your story.
If the HOUR is 1 - a robot.
If the HOUR is 2 - a hopeless romantic.
If the HOUR is 3 - a masked vigilante.
If the HOUR is 4 - an elected official.
If the HOUR is 5 - a dinosaur.
If the HOUR is 6 - an imaginary friend.
If the HOUR is 7 - a widow.
If the HOUR is 8 - a tiger cub.
If the HOUR is 9 - the Troll King.
If the HOUR is 10 - a police officer.
If the HOUR is 11 - a college freshman.
If the HOUR is 12 - a god.
The MINUTE (in the tens place) will determine the GENRE of your story.
If the MINUTE is 0X - war.
If the MINUTE is 1X - science-fiction.
If the MINUTE is 2X - horror.
If the MINUTE is 3X - romance.
If the MINUTE is 4X - fantasy.
If the MINUTE is 5X - psychological thriller.
Finally, the TIME OF DAY will determine the TONE of your story.
If it is A.M. - comedic.
If it is P.M. - dramatic.
For example, if it is 2:18 p.m., I would write a DRAMATIC SCIENCE-FICTION story with my main character being A HOPELESS ROMANTIC.
Benjamin strolled the streets the night before it happened. He knew he wasn't supposed to. In fact, he could have been arrested simply for setting foot outside of his apartment stoop, but he was tired of being forced into his little cell every night after 19:00. He was tired of looking out his apartment window, watching the MPs force everyone inside while the curfew bell tolled.
Benjamin had heard earlier that day, just like everyone else, about the news on the radio. It was coming, and not even the Supreme President and his Royal Army could stop something like this. Benjamin felt infuriated at the hours upon hours he had spent, sitting in front of his radio at night after curfew, listening to the Supreme President's address, full of boasts and promises of an invincible army of gears and levers and processors. It was all lies, Benjamin now knew. His world was nothing but lies.
And so it was that thought that forced Benjamin out of his apartment fifteen minutes after curfew. He couldn't even see the moon that night. It was undoubtedly gone, nothing but a specks of dust being sucked into the heat of a star or some such. The sky glowed red, like the lipstick of Benjamin's mother. Or so he thought.
He wasn't supposed to visit the Low District, but laws, like lies, didn't matter anymore. What would they do, throw him in a cell? The MPs must be with their families by now, Benjamin thought. The idea of these men, the only men still in the service of the Supreme President, without their armor or whips, but instead holding tightly their little ones - it warmed Benjamin's heart.
But the thoughts of holding someone, an act he had never been allowed to do because the Council for Procreation still had sixteen months before getting to Benjamin, infuriated him. The only family photo Benjamin had left was a snapshot of his parents, sitting pristine and still in front of a white curtain. His father is holding his mother around the stomach. Benjamin liked to think he was in her stomach at that moment; he liked to think that, at some point in his life, he had been present for a moment of warmth.
Benjamin left the paved street and began marching down the dirt path into the Low District. He had heard rumors of men from the High District venturing down into the Low for black market activities. He had always considered himself above such things, but what difference did morality make anymore? A code of ethics surely wouldn't stop what was coming for them.
Benjamin was surprised to hear the laughing and whooping of merrymaking, and soon he found himself just outside a dancing circle, arms interlocked and feet kicking for the sky. Small fires lit the way deeper into the District, and Benjamin descended into the belly of the lowly village.
How much longer did he have, Benjamin wondered. Long enough for a night together? Long enough to learn the intimate curves of another's body? He could only hope so.
On the front porch of a shanty house, Benjamin found three young women, perhaps only a year or two younger than himself. He caught the eye of a lady and smiled at her. She smiled back, but raised her eyes to the dancing circle now some distance away.
"Ahem, excuse me, miss?"
"Yes?" answered the lady.
"Might I -- I mean, I was wondering if you were one of the ladies I have heard about."
"And what kind of lady might that be?"
"Perhaps, a lady of intimate relations?"
The lady laughed. She sounded so innocent to Benjamin's ears, he found it hard to believe she was anything but a newlwed housewife.
"Tonight, sir, we are all the same. There is no business tonight, only goodbyes."
"Oh," Benjamin said. He had not thought of that. He had not thought that, of all the things to no longer be of importance, that money might be one of them.
"What is your name?" the lady asked.
"Benjamin 54 Charles Place."
"Well, Benjamin 54 Charles Place, my name is Velvet. I am sorry, but your money will be of no good here tonight."
He paused for a moment, trying desperately to remember her face before he went. His eyes fell to his feet, and growing under the shanty porch he found a single rose. He plucked it, minding the thorns, and handed it to Velvet.
"I apologize, miss. Enjoy your night."
"Perhaps, we might enjoy it together?"
He looked up at her and saw her smile of pearls. "But, you said --"
"Money, tonight, is of little value. But there are other things to be gained before the end of the world." Velvet took his hand and led him into the shanty.
