"They're going to write stories about us." Tanner leaned against the cold, wet surface of the brick wall. The alleyway was dark, but he knew there was only one way out. It was past him, and his foe wasn't going anywhere. "Tanner and Dominic - Hero and Villain, to the death."
A few feet away, Dominic laughed. It was a low laugh, filled with amusement before it turned into weak coughing. Although Tanner couldn't see him, he knew that Dominic was a crumpled mess on the ground, blood slowly draining from his stomach. The thought made Tanner smile, and he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, despite the rain dripping down on him.
"Little Sarah would be proud." Dominic groaned as he spoke.
Tanner imagined that the man's lips were covered in blood from coughing, his internal organs slowly killing him as they failed. He cringed at the thought before shaking his head and turning in Dominic's direction. "A bit too late to taunt me, no?"
There was a low snort from the alleyway. "Bitch was too good for you anyway."
"That she was." Tanner held the cigarette out in front of him. With a crooked smile, he wandered over to Dominic. Reality was similar to what he had imagined; Dominic was leaning up against a dumpster, his hands and shirt covered in blood. The rainwater was struggling to wash it all away, causing a trail of blood to flow towards the nearest storm drain.
Dominic looked up, his struggling features still managing to look smug. "What would she say now?"
Tanner leaned down, placing the cigarette in the dying man's lips. "Oh, I don't know." His eyes wandered, finding nothing more interesting than his fallen companion. "Probably argue that a good man would never kill - that you twisted me."
Dominic rolled his lips, spitting the cigarette out. "That I won."
Tanner nodded, his eyes locking with Dominic's. Despite his pale features, Dominic looked as wild and fierce as ever. Tanner laughed, shrugging and patting the man on his head. "Maybe. But I have to thank you."
Dominic seemed confused, some of the ferocity giving way to curiosity. "Thank me? For what?"
"Giving me a reason to kill." Tanner pulled out a knife, the blade still dripping with blood from recent use. "Some men don't deserve a chance to live. I never would have reached this conclusion without you."
The curiosity on Dominic's face wilted away into fear - something Tanner had never expected to see on the man's face. "Wait - you wouldn't."
"Time to say goodbye, old friend." The dagger spun in Tanner's fingers. "It's okay. In the end, I forgive you." The dagger zipped forward, cutting Dominic's neck as he tried to speak out. Tanner smiled weakly, wiping the blade on his enemies coat. "Tell Sarah I'm sorry, if you see her."
-----------------------
Boom boom boom boom. Getting better. I think. I'm enjoying the recent ones more. Original thread here. Have a good oneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Sunday, April 6, 2014
017 - "Tell a story of an encounter with a superhero from two different perspectives."
Intense heat. That is what I remember. My body still spasms uncontrollably at the memory. I don't know how to explain it, really. Its like trying to explain the taste of chicken to someone who has never had meat before. It was hot.
I don't remember why I was even in the building. A delivery of some kind - doesn't matter, I was there. I remember the smoke first. It filled my head, making the world appear as if I were watching some sort of optical illusion. Things were out of place. I felt lost and alone in a foreign land.
Then came the heat. The little heat at first. It was warm. I remember pulling my tie off, loosening around my neck to let my skin breathe.Then it grew worse, like I was being smothered in a blanket. I could survive the oppressing sensation from the outside. I wasn't worried until it felt as if my organs were going to burst. All I wanted was fresh air - I just wanted my insides to cool off.
Then he was there. I don't know how he got there or where he came from. One second I remember thinking that the flames looked as if they had faces in them, the next, arms like tree trunks are grabbing me from behind. I thought maybe I had backed into a beam that had broken and fallen around me.
At first, I tried to fight against it. I used what strength I had left to struggle, as if these were the last moments of my life and I had no choice but to escape the burly arm around my waist. But he was too strong. No, strong doesn't properly describe it. He carried me through the air as if I were a crumpled paper towel to be tossed in the waste bin. I'm not sure he ever used his full strength, not even as he crashed through the walls, still alight with unnaturally bright flames.
I'm not even sure he was human.
--------------------------------------------
Arson. I'd only been on site for a few minutes, but I'd been certain even as we drove up. After fifteen years as a firefighter, I knew the signs even at a glance. These flames burned brighter than an accidental fire. They licked at the sky, desperately hungry for the oxygen that fueled it. In some places, it looked as if even the bricks had somehow began to burn. It wasn't an accident.
These are my least favorite kind of fires, even above forest fires. A flame burning through a forest is uncontrollable, deadly, and unbelievably destructive - but it is still predictable, in a way. Plans can be made, people can be warned, and, eventually, the fire will die out. They are exhausting, but in the end, the flames will be extinguished.
I'm never so certain with arson. They're unnatural, burning hotter than any typical fire. Most of the time, we're told to stay away from them. We don't know what kind of fuel could be hidden away, ready to ignite the flame's hunger. We try to set up a perimeter and hope - hope - that the flames will rush through it's dinner without inflicting too much harm.
This fire was one of those fires I wasn't sure of. People were inside. We were set to go in, but nobody was really prepared. Something was wrong with those flames. Water didn't help and we had no way of cutting off its oxygen. People were inside, but we were too afraid to rescue them.
But someone else wasn't. He must have been inside to begin with, before the flames started, because he came out before we ever saw him go in. There were three people in his massive arms, and he burst through the wall as if it were nothing. His skin was dark, as if covered in soot, and his face looked as if it may have been burned. But he just dropped the people on the ground, turned, and went straight back into the flames.
When the shock passed, that was enough for my fellow fireman to brave the heat. We went through the path that the massive man had just created, trying to follow after him. It was difficult to see through the smoke, but he seemed to kick aside flaming debris without a second thought, having no care for what it might do to his exposed skin. Some of my fellow workers tried to yell for him to leave, to find safety, but he ignored us. He just kept dredging on, and we followed.
I knew something was unnatural about him as sure as I knew that something was wrong with the fire. We made it to the second floor, and he picked up another three people and tucked them under his arm as if they were dolls. I offered to help, but he just shook his head and kept right on walking - right through the wall of the second floor.
I turned to my fellow firefighters, only to find myself alone. They had scattered, searching through the first floor to see if the stranger had missed anyone. Alone, I thought I was seeing things - that the smoke was getting to my mind. Then, a few seconds later, the brute was suddenly in the hole he had created, ripping himself upwards as if he were climbing a mountain. He moved past me, heading up to the third floor. I followed, and the process repeated. He rescued, jumped, climbed. All the way through the six floor building. He found what survivors he could, then jumped through the wall, regardless of height, and dropped them outside. When they were safe, he climbed right back in. I couldn't help but follow him, watching.
By the sixth floor, I knew I'd made a mistake. I hadn't been much help, but the heat and smoke were starting to get to me. I couldn't climb down six floors. I was too tired. I couldn't jump out, either. I was suddenly worried that I might die - but he came back for me.
I've never felt so tiny, so utterly useless, as when he picked me up and placed me on his shoulder. I felt like a boy again, dreaming of the cartoons I had hoped to be real. The man gave me a crooked smile. His face was scarred with fresh burn marks, but he seemed unaware of the burned flesh. He simply turned and jumped right off the roof. The weight of his landing cracked the Earth, sending shudders through my body. He set me down, patted me on the head as if I were a faithful dog, and walked off down an alleyway. I tried to call out, to get him medical attention, but my voice cracked in my throat. I stood, watching him go, unsure about everything I had just experienced.
----------------------------
An old one, saved about a month ago, and never finished. WELL IT IS FINISHED NOW. Could be better, but it isn't bad. Which is alright.
I don't remember why I was even in the building. A delivery of some kind - doesn't matter, I was there. I remember the smoke first. It filled my head, making the world appear as if I were watching some sort of optical illusion. Things were out of place. I felt lost and alone in a foreign land.
Then came the heat. The little heat at first. It was warm. I remember pulling my tie off, loosening around my neck to let my skin breathe.Then it grew worse, like I was being smothered in a blanket. I could survive the oppressing sensation from the outside. I wasn't worried until it felt as if my organs were going to burst. All I wanted was fresh air - I just wanted my insides to cool off.
Then he was there. I don't know how he got there or where he came from. One second I remember thinking that the flames looked as if they had faces in them, the next, arms like tree trunks are grabbing me from behind. I thought maybe I had backed into a beam that had broken and fallen around me.
At first, I tried to fight against it. I used what strength I had left to struggle, as if these were the last moments of my life and I had no choice but to escape the burly arm around my waist. But he was too strong. No, strong doesn't properly describe it. He carried me through the air as if I were a crumpled paper towel to be tossed in the waste bin. I'm not sure he ever used his full strength, not even as he crashed through the walls, still alight with unnaturally bright flames.
I'm not even sure he was human.
--------------------------------------------
Arson. I'd only been on site for a few minutes, but I'd been certain even as we drove up. After fifteen years as a firefighter, I knew the signs even at a glance. These flames burned brighter than an accidental fire. They licked at the sky, desperately hungry for the oxygen that fueled it. In some places, it looked as if even the bricks had somehow began to burn. It wasn't an accident.
These are my least favorite kind of fires, even above forest fires. A flame burning through a forest is uncontrollable, deadly, and unbelievably destructive - but it is still predictable, in a way. Plans can be made, people can be warned, and, eventually, the fire will die out. They are exhausting, but in the end, the flames will be extinguished.
I'm never so certain with arson. They're unnatural, burning hotter than any typical fire. Most of the time, we're told to stay away from them. We don't know what kind of fuel could be hidden away, ready to ignite the flame's hunger. We try to set up a perimeter and hope - hope - that the flames will rush through it's dinner without inflicting too much harm.
This fire was one of those fires I wasn't sure of. People were inside. We were set to go in, but nobody was really prepared. Something was wrong with those flames. Water didn't help and we had no way of cutting off its oxygen. People were inside, but we were too afraid to rescue them.
But someone else wasn't. He must have been inside to begin with, before the flames started, because he came out before we ever saw him go in. There were three people in his massive arms, and he burst through the wall as if it were nothing. His skin was dark, as if covered in soot, and his face looked as if it may have been burned. But he just dropped the people on the ground, turned, and went straight back into the flames.
When the shock passed, that was enough for my fellow fireman to brave the heat. We went through the path that the massive man had just created, trying to follow after him. It was difficult to see through the smoke, but he seemed to kick aside flaming debris without a second thought, having no care for what it might do to his exposed skin. Some of my fellow workers tried to yell for him to leave, to find safety, but he ignored us. He just kept dredging on, and we followed.
I knew something was unnatural about him as sure as I knew that something was wrong with the fire. We made it to the second floor, and he picked up another three people and tucked them under his arm as if they were dolls. I offered to help, but he just shook his head and kept right on walking - right through the wall of the second floor.
I turned to my fellow firefighters, only to find myself alone. They had scattered, searching through the first floor to see if the stranger had missed anyone. Alone, I thought I was seeing things - that the smoke was getting to my mind. Then, a few seconds later, the brute was suddenly in the hole he had created, ripping himself upwards as if he were climbing a mountain. He moved past me, heading up to the third floor. I followed, and the process repeated. He rescued, jumped, climbed. All the way through the six floor building. He found what survivors he could, then jumped through the wall, regardless of height, and dropped them outside. When they were safe, he climbed right back in. I couldn't help but follow him, watching.
By the sixth floor, I knew I'd made a mistake. I hadn't been much help, but the heat and smoke were starting to get to me. I couldn't climb down six floors. I was too tired. I couldn't jump out, either. I was suddenly worried that I might die - but he came back for me.
I've never felt so tiny, so utterly useless, as when he picked me up and placed me on his shoulder. I felt like a boy again, dreaming of the cartoons I had hoped to be real. The man gave me a crooked smile. His face was scarred with fresh burn marks, but he seemed unaware of the burned flesh. He simply turned and jumped right off the roof. The weight of his landing cracked the Earth, sending shudders through my body. He set me down, patted me on the head as if I were a faithful dog, and walked off down an alleyway. I tried to call out, to get him medical attention, but my voice cracked in my throat. I stood, watching him go, unsure about everything I had just experienced.
----------------------------
An old one, saved about a month ago, and never finished. WELL IT IS FINISHED NOW. Could be better, but it isn't bad. Which is alright.
019 - "Write as if you were the king, your brother the high wizard, and you are discussing an impending orc invasion, as close to reality as possible."
The table in the center of the dining hall was large enough to cram a hundred people around it. The surface of the table was overflowing with an array of different foods, as if a feast had been prepared to feed half the castle. Instead of an exuberant feast, however, there was only silence as two men sat across from each other, eating slowly.
The first man cleared his throat, the motion turning into a cough. He forced his shoulders back in an attempt to fix his posture, but both his eyes and body drooped with exhaustion. "Anything interesting happen today?" His voice carried across the empty room, bouncing off the walls and returning in a slow, unintelligible mumble. When there was no answer, he tried again, "Any news, today?"
While the first man was hardly picking at his food, his counterpart seemed to be eating so much that it was a wonder his stomach didn't burst. He paused, his mouth still half full, and shook his head slowly. The food slid down his throat as his eyes darted across the table. "What?"
The first man sat up in his large, throne like chair and pushed his food away. His hair was in a strangled mess, with a patchy beard attempting to cover his pale, blemished face. He tried to smile, but the act only resulted in a grimace. "Your king asked if you had anything to report."
"My king, or my brother?" The second man was younger than the first, but taller and far more refined looking. He eyed the king carefully before returning to his food.
"Does it matter?" The king cleared his throat again before shaking his head and letting out a rough cough. "You're the courts high wizard, and my brother. Either way, I need to know what is going on."
"Have you tried talking to the men you pay for information?" The wizard continued eating, his eyes not even leaving the plate in front of him. The food seemed to disappear so quickly that it was a wonder he had time for words.
"I have." The king grimaced. Most of the council made his skin crawl and he wanted nothing to do with them. They were too worried about the politics of a kingdom, rather than its safety. He let out a sigh. "Ren, we agreed to rule this kingdom together."
The wizard stopped, another forkful of food halfway to his mouth. He set it back down, took a long drink of water, and looked up at his king. "Your point?"
"Help me." The king's eyes began to feel a bit glassy, and his vision became a bit blurry. He blinked furiously against the water in his eyes before giving out a weak smile. "I didn't want this anymore than you did. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't think I can lead a kingdom."
"We could leave." Ren leaned forward against the table, his eyes boring down on his elder brother.
"Like dad did after mom died?" The king snorted, shaking his head. "And leave the kingdom to whom? The council?"
"Who cares?" The wizard clenched his jaw, his eyes wandering through the wide empty room to stare out one of the many windows along the wall. "It shouldn't be our problem. Let them figure it out."
"We're the rulers, their leaders - it is our job to protect them against attacks like this." The king felt his sinewy muscles clench up in frustration. If he had the strength to argue, he would have risen from his chair and shouted. Instead, he let out a sigh and rested his forehead against his hand. "We may not be very good at it, but we shouldn't leave."
The silence of the hall seemed to envelope the both of them, but eventually Ren gave a slow nod. "From what we have been able to scry, the orcs should be here within the month. Our neighboring kingdoms have not lasted long against the creatures."
"Options? Ideas?" The king perked up slightly, but he remained with his head in hand, eyes turned sideways at his younger brother.
"Well, leaving would be my first suggestion." Ren glanced down from the window before shaking his head. "Surrender isn't a real option. The orcs kill enough of their own men on a good day. Humans fair much worse."
"What about holding our ground?"
"Not wise. Like I said, many of the other kingdoms are...gone." The stoney gaze that the high wizard gave off was enough to send a shiver down any mans back. The King, however, just felt a twinge of sadness whenever he looked to his brother.
"Yes, well, we don't have much of a choice." The king clicked his tongue against his teeth, counting the beat as he did so. A few tunes tickled his brain, but he pushed them away to focus on the problem in front of him. "What options do we have as far as defensive strategies are concerned?"
"I don't know." Ren looked down at his food, then pushed it away. He reached for another drink of water, but when he found it empty, he let out an audible sigh and leaned back in his chair.
"You don't know, or you don't want to talk about it?"
"I don't know."
"Helpful." The king folded his hands together, his eyes wandering out the same window that his brother seemed fascinated with.
Time passed as they sat in silence, neither looking to the other. Eventually, the King gave a crooked smile and brought his gaze back to the table. "If this were a game - one of the ones we created during our childhood - what would you tell me?"
The wizard matched his brothers gaze before rolling his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"Here." The King stood, using the full force of his body to push the large chair backwards. He moved to a nearby cabinet, pulling out a large blank parchment and a quill. He carried them to the opposite end of the enormous table. His boney fingers reached out, pushing aside meals worth of uneaten food and replacing them with the parchment. Immediately, he began to scribble across it, drawing a crude map of the realm.
"What are you doing?" Ren sat up a bit straighter, leaning in just enough to see the parchment. "Your handwriting is terrible."
"So is my ability to draw." The king frowned, scratching at his poor excuse for facial hair. "Do you want to do it?"
"No." Despite his words, he stood from his seat and pushed the King aside. Sighing heavily, the wizard reached out for the quill and looked down at the parchment. "What am I doing?"
"Drawing the realm."
"Is that what this mess is?" The wizard released another rush of disgruntled air and started to draw. It wasn't much better than his brother's work, but it at least appeared to be created by an intelligent creature.
When the map was done, they both took a step back and looked it over. "Okay." Said the king. He nodded to himself, then pointed to a few sections of the map. "Those places are gone. You might as well mark them, and their resources, as belonging to the orcs."
Ren nodded, scribbling down the information, consistently careful to avoid getting ink on his hand as he wrote. When he was done, he started to scribble down information of his own. "These are our allies. Rather, the kingdoms that we can depend on holding long enough that we will have a warning if we are flanked."
"Good." The king clicked his tongue against his teeth again and let his eyes wander around the empty room. "We should be careful anyway. Have your wizards create outposts in each direction. They can create firetraps to slowdown our enemy."
"They won't like that." Ren paused, the quill dancing back and forth in his fingers. "They would rather be here. They would be more useful here."
"They would be safer here." The King stood up straighter, his stance growing solid for the first time in weeks. "But they would be more useful guarding our borders. If the orcs breakthrough, the wizards are the only ones able to communicate with us from the outside - and the most effective at harassing our enemy from behind."
"Fine, fine, but I remain here."
"Of course."
"What of the cavalry?"
"What of them?" The King made his way to a window, his gaze drifting out over the scenery. It made him feel powerful to look down upon his kingdom. It was an odd sensation, but one he yearned for as his physical strength waned.
"They are of no use to us inside the keep." The quill was writing on it's own, now, as Ren returned to his seat. Leaning back in his seat, his gaze wandered to the expansive skyline visible over the king's shoulders.
"Fair enough." The elder brother turned, looking over the make-shift map in front of them. "Send them to the West. They can act as diplomats, until the fighting begins. Either they will return with aide, or they shall serve as our relief force, for the wizards. Between the two of them, we should have a high potential for flanking and dividing the enemy force."
"Good." Ren reached out, grabbing another selection of food, despite it growing cold with the passing conversation.
"Are you eating more already?" The King shook his head, a small chuckle rising from within.
Ren shrugged, his mouth stuffed full. "I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry."
"A downside to being a high wizard." He shrugged. "Are you going to finish your drink?"
The King waved dismissively, his attention on the map. His fingers traced the ink, most of it too dry to smudge under his touch. He took a deep breath and smiled sadly. "We should make tunnels, under the keep. Give our people a chance to escape, should the need arise."
"Ah, yes. The people."
"We are not running."
"If you say so." Ren sat down in the King's throne-like chair, his feet resting upon the table as he sipped on his borrowed drink. "This city was not intended to be defensible."
"So we change it."
"Easier said than done."
"You're a wizard." The King shook his head. "Stop...whatever it is you're doing. We're staying. We're defending this city."
"Yeah."
"We're not going to die."
"Yeah."
"Stop that." They locked eyes, neither of them wanting to back down from their position. Eventually, Ren simply shrugged. The king nodded. "Good. Now, about the archers..."
--------------------------
Started weeks ago. Not sure if I'm content, but I'm content enough.
The first man cleared his throat, the motion turning into a cough. He forced his shoulders back in an attempt to fix his posture, but both his eyes and body drooped with exhaustion. "Anything interesting happen today?" His voice carried across the empty room, bouncing off the walls and returning in a slow, unintelligible mumble. When there was no answer, he tried again, "Any news, today?"
While the first man was hardly picking at his food, his counterpart seemed to be eating so much that it was a wonder his stomach didn't burst. He paused, his mouth still half full, and shook his head slowly. The food slid down his throat as his eyes darted across the table. "What?"
The first man sat up in his large, throne like chair and pushed his food away. His hair was in a strangled mess, with a patchy beard attempting to cover his pale, blemished face. He tried to smile, but the act only resulted in a grimace. "Your king asked if you had anything to report."
"My king, or my brother?" The second man was younger than the first, but taller and far more refined looking. He eyed the king carefully before returning to his food.
"Does it matter?" The king cleared his throat again before shaking his head and letting out a rough cough. "You're the courts high wizard, and my brother. Either way, I need to know what is going on."
"Have you tried talking to the men you pay for information?" The wizard continued eating, his eyes not even leaving the plate in front of him. The food seemed to disappear so quickly that it was a wonder he had time for words.
"I have." The king grimaced. Most of the council made his skin crawl and he wanted nothing to do with them. They were too worried about the politics of a kingdom, rather than its safety. He let out a sigh. "Ren, we agreed to rule this kingdom together."
The wizard stopped, another forkful of food halfway to his mouth. He set it back down, took a long drink of water, and looked up at his king. "Your point?"
"Help me." The king's eyes began to feel a bit glassy, and his vision became a bit blurry. He blinked furiously against the water in his eyes before giving out a weak smile. "I didn't want this anymore than you did. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't think I can lead a kingdom."
"We could leave." Ren leaned forward against the table, his eyes boring down on his elder brother.
"Like dad did after mom died?" The king snorted, shaking his head. "And leave the kingdom to whom? The council?"
"Who cares?" The wizard clenched his jaw, his eyes wandering through the wide empty room to stare out one of the many windows along the wall. "It shouldn't be our problem. Let them figure it out."
"We're the rulers, their leaders - it is our job to protect them against attacks like this." The king felt his sinewy muscles clench up in frustration. If he had the strength to argue, he would have risen from his chair and shouted. Instead, he let out a sigh and rested his forehead against his hand. "We may not be very good at it, but we shouldn't leave."
The silence of the hall seemed to envelope the both of them, but eventually Ren gave a slow nod. "From what we have been able to scry, the orcs should be here within the month. Our neighboring kingdoms have not lasted long against the creatures."
"Options? Ideas?" The king perked up slightly, but he remained with his head in hand, eyes turned sideways at his younger brother.
"Well, leaving would be my first suggestion." Ren glanced down from the window before shaking his head. "Surrender isn't a real option. The orcs kill enough of their own men on a good day. Humans fair much worse."
"What about holding our ground?"
"Not wise. Like I said, many of the other kingdoms are...gone." The stoney gaze that the high wizard gave off was enough to send a shiver down any mans back. The King, however, just felt a twinge of sadness whenever he looked to his brother.
"Yes, well, we don't have much of a choice." The king clicked his tongue against his teeth, counting the beat as he did so. A few tunes tickled his brain, but he pushed them away to focus on the problem in front of him. "What options do we have as far as defensive strategies are concerned?"
"I don't know." Ren looked down at his food, then pushed it away. He reached for another drink of water, but when he found it empty, he let out an audible sigh and leaned back in his chair.
"You don't know, or you don't want to talk about it?"
"I don't know."
"Helpful." The king folded his hands together, his eyes wandering out the same window that his brother seemed fascinated with.
Time passed as they sat in silence, neither looking to the other. Eventually, the King gave a crooked smile and brought his gaze back to the table. "If this were a game - one of the ones we created during our childhood - what would you tell me?"
The wizard matched his brothers gaze before rolling his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"Here." The King stood, using the full force of his body to push the large chair backwards. He moved to a nearby cabinet, pulling out a large blank parchment and a quill. He carried them to the opposite end of the enormous table. His boney fingers reached out, pushing aside meals worth of uneaten food and replacing them with the parchment. Immediately, he began to scribble across it, drawing a crude map of the realm.
"What are you doing?" Ren sat up a bit straighter, leaning in just enough to see the parchment. "Your handwriting is terrible."
"So is my ability to draw." The king frowned, scratching at his poor excuse for facial hair. "Do you want to do it?"
"No." Despite his words, he stood from his seat and pushed the King aside. Sighing heavily, the wizard reached out for the quill and looked down at the parchment. "What am I doing?"
"Drawing the realm."
"Is that what this mess is?" The wizard released another rush of disgruntled air and started to draw. It wasn't much better than his brother's work, but it at least appeared to be created by an intelligent creature.
When the map was done, they both took a step back and looked it over. "Okay." Said the king. He nodded to himself, then pointed to a few sections of the map. "Those places are gone. You might as well mark them, and their resources, as belonging to the orcs."
Ren nodded, scribbling down the information, consistently careful to avoid getting ink on his hand as he wrote. When he was done, he started to scribble down information of his own. "These are our allies. Rather, the kingdoms that we can depend on holding long enough that we will have a warning if we are flanked."
"Good." The king clicked his tongue against his teeth again and let his eyes wander around the empty room. "We should be careful anyway. Have your wizards create outposts in each direction. They can create firetraps to slowdown our enemy."
"They won't like that." Ren paused, the quill dancing back and forth in his fingers. "They would rather be here. They would be more useful here."
"They would be safer here." The King stood up straighter, his stance growing solid for the first time in weeks. "But they would be more useful guarding our borders. If the orcs breakthrough, the wizards are the only ones able to communicate with us from the outside - and the most effective at harassing our enemy from behind."
"Fine, fine, but I remain here."
"Of course."
"What of the cavalry?"
"What of them?" The King made his way to a window, his gaze drifting out over the scenery. It made him feel powerful to look down upon his kingdom. It was an odd sensation, but one he yearned for as his physical strength waned.
"They are of no use to us inside the keep." The quill was writing on it's own, now, as Ren returned to his seat. Leaning back in his seat, his gaze wandered to the expansive skyline visible over the king's shoulders.
"Fair enough." The elder brother turned, looking over the make-shift map in front of them. "Send them to the West. They can act as diplomats, until the fighting begins. Either they will return with aide, or they shall serve as our relief force, for the wizards. Between the two of them, we should have a high potential for flanking and dividing the enemy force."
"Good." Ren reached out, grabbing another selection of food, despite it growing cold with the passing conversation.
"Are you eating more already?" The King shook his head, a small chuckle rising from within.
Ren shrugged, his mouth stuffed full. "I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry."
"A downside to being a high wizard." He shrugged. "Are you going to finish your drink?"
The King waved dismissively, his attention on the map. His fingers traced the ink, most of it too dry to smudge under his touch. He took a deep breath and smiled sadly. "We should make tunnels, under the keep. Give our people a chance to escape, should the need arise."
"Ah, yes. The people."
"We are not running."
"If you say so." Ren sat down in the King's throne-like chair, his feet resting upon the table as he sipped on his borrowed drink. "This city was not intended to be defensible."
"So we change it."
"Easier said than done."
"You're a wizard." The King shook his head. "Stop...whatever it is you're doing. We're staying. We're defending this city."
"Yeah."
"We're not going to die."
"Yeah."
"Stop that." They locked eyes, neither of them wanting to back down from their position. Eventually, Ren simply shrugged. The king nodded. "Good. Now, about the archers..."
--------------------------
Started weeks ago. Not sure if I'm content, but I'm content enough.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
018 - "You start to wake up from a dream with a beautiful woman. As you fight to stay in the dream you grab her hand and when you wake up she has been made real."
I don't know how I got here. I try to remember, but every time I do, all I see is you. My vision feels like a tunnel, as if you are the light at the end, and everything else is a dark mess of inconsequential nothingness. Something is wrong. I can feel it. I can see it. Your features are as smooth as a peaceful body of water. I reach out, my course fingers brushing your cheek. You smile, the creases moving along your skin as if ripples among water.
You feel real. The touch of your skin among my fingers sends an unimaginable shiver coursing through my arm and down my spine. I can't help but shake, my legs wobbling as I try to maintain my balance. It doesn't seem possible. I pinch your cheeks just to be sure, and you yelp, grabbing my hand and pulling it away. We both laugh, and I can't help but feel my stomach drop. It can't be real.
I close my eyes, attempting to take a steadying breath. It helps. I feel calmer. The air is clean, fresh, as if I were in an open field after a recent storm. I can hear birds chipping and chirping among the trees, somewhere behind me. Insects buzz past my ears, but I hold still, trying to focus on my thoughts. How did I get here?
You give my hand a sudden squeeze and bring it to your lips, brushing my skin with a kiss. As before, my scattered brain quakes, everything dropping away except for you. Your heart beat drums through my mind, matching the unnatural pace of my sporadic thoughts. I take another deep breath, but my nostrils are filled only with lilacs and sweat; with your unforgettable scent.
"Open your eyes." You whisper softly. I can feel the tears now. They are warm as they run down my cheeks, filling me with an uncomfortable sense of the humidity in the air - or the humidity I know should be in the air. I should be dripping with sweat, but instead my face is soaked in tears.
I am afraid to open my eyes. I know I can't be here. I know this to be impossible. My body shakes again, my legs giving way to the uncontrollable shudder. I hear you whispering softly, but your words are nothing more than the clatter of birds.
I force my eyes apart. They sting, but my vision is remarkably clear for looking through a pane of salty water. You're fading now. I reach my free hand out to grasp your auburn hair, but it flows through my fingers as if it were the wind. I still feel your hands around mine, and I give it a squeeze strong enough to fell a bear. I can't let go. I won't let go.
A sob wracks my body and I blink against the newly formed tears. When my vision clears again, all I see is the speckled ceiling of my bedroom. I start to cry audibly, my grip around the pillow in my arms tightening so hard that I begin to lose feeling in my hands. It should be you within my grasp.
"Whats wrong?" I hear the whisper from the emptiness where you used to sleep, but I know it comes from within my own mind. I roll away, unable to face the space where you should be. I continue to cry until the sanctum below my face begins to turn into a wet pool and I am forced to rise in order to avoid drowning in my own sorrows.
I move to get out of bed, but a sudden hand on my shoulder causes me to freeze. My mind attempts to run through various fight or flighty scenarios, but it is too sluggish to be of aide. I take a shaky breath and hug the pillow in my arms.
"Babe, what's wrong?" Your voice cuts through the air this time, and your bedside light flickers on. I pinch the back of my hand so vehemently that blood begins racing down my fingertips. I try to take another calming breath, but my nostrils are filled with the taste of lilacs.
"Hey, talk to me." I feel the bed shift and sway as you move, and suddenly you're on the ground before me, reaching up to dust away my tears. My gut tells me to jerk away, but for the first time in years, I feel calm. I smile, my lips ecstatic to have your fingertips dance across my cheek.
"You cut yourself?" Your second hand gently inspects the blood on my fingers and I wince - half out of guilt, and half out of embarrassment. You rise, moving towards the bathroom in search of something. I close my eyes, trying to steady my body. From the bathroom, I hear you shuffling through the contents of the cabinet. Glass is clinking together, boxes are being shaken, and pills are bouncing inside their containers. The clunk of a light switch signals your return.
I raise my eyelids and focus my vision on your features. You frown as you go to work on my cut, your eyebrows making an awkward v above your eyes. I can see the sporadic blemishes along your forehead and temples, spot the scar over your lip, see the crookedness of your nose, and the odd alignment of your eyes. I see how imperfect you are; how you hold the features that made me love you all the more. Something inside me breaks, and I realize that this is not the same nondescript perfection of my dreams.
I reach down, my arm shaking, and I tilt your chin up towards me. I want to kiss you, to feel the lips that have been missing for so long. I want to hug you until we're both pale as ghosts. I want to do so many things with you, but a voice in the back of my mind screams and claws at my conscious until I have no choice but to speak the words that haunt me every hour of everyday. "You're dead."
Without missing a beat, you frown and say, "Am I?"
--------------------------------
It has been awhile since I have made a post. Probably won't get 365 posts for the year, but if the goal was 200 words for each post, I think I am close to on track with word count. Also, I have a few numbers that I have skipped because I started to write but did not complete them. They may or may not be posted eventually. Woops!
Thanks for reading, for the prompt, click here! Have a nice day.
You feel real. The touch of your skin among my fingers sends an unimaginable shiver coursing through my arm and down my spine. I can't help but shake, my legs wobbling as I try to maintain my balance. It doesn't seem possible. I pinch your cheeks just to be sure, and you yelp, grabbing my hand and pulling it away. We both laugh, and I can't help but feel my stomach drop. It can't be real.
I close my eyes, attempting to take a steadying breath. It helps. I feel calmer. The air is clean, fresh, as if I were in an open field after a recent storm. I can hear birds chipping and chirping among the trees, somewhere behind me. Insects buzz past my ears, but I hold still, trying to focus on my thoughts. How did I get here?
You give my hand a sudden squeeze and bring it to your lips, brushing my skin with a kiss. As before, my scattered brain quakes, everything dropping away except for you. Your heart beat drums through my mind, matching the unnatural pace of my sporadic thoughts. I take another deep breath, but my nostrils are filled only with lilacs and sweat; with your unforgettable scent.
"Open your eyes." You whisper softly. I can feel the tears now. They are warm as they run down my cheeks, filling me with an uncomfortable sense of the humidity in the air - or the humidity I know should be in the air. I should be dripping with sweat, but instead my face is soaked in tears.
I am afraid to open my eyes. I know I can't be here. I know this to be impossible. My body shakes again, my legs giving way to the uncontrollable shudder. I hear you whispering softly, but your words are nothing more than the clatter of birds.
I force my eyes apart. They sting, but my vision is remarkably clear for looking through a pane of salty water. You're fading now. I reach my free hand out to grasp your auburn hair, but it flows through my fingers as if it were the wind. I still feel your hands around mine, and I give it a squeeze strong enough to fell a bear. I can't let go. I won't let go.
A sob wracks my body and I blink against the newly formed tears. When my vision clears again, all I see is the speckled ceiling of my bedroom. I start to cry audibly, my grip around the pillow in my arms tightening so hard that I begin to lose feeling in my hands. It should be you within my grasp.
"Whats wrong?" I hear the whisper from the emptiness where you used to sleep, but I know it comes from within my own mind. I roll away, unable to face the space where you should be. I continue to cry until the sanctum below my face begins to turn into a wet pool and I am forced to rise in order to avoid drowning in my own sorrows.
I move to get out of bed, but a sudden hand on my shoulder causes me to freeze. My mind attempts to run through various fight or flighty scenarios, but it is too sluggish to be of aide. I take a shaky breath and hug the pillow in my arms.
"Babe, what's wrong?" Your voice cuts through the air this time, and your bedside light flickers on. I pinch the back of my hand so vehemently that blood begins racing down my fingertips. I try to take another calming breath, but my nostrils are filled with the taste of lilacs.
"Hey, talk to me." I feel the bed shift and sway as you move, and suddenly you're on the ground before me, reaching up to dust away my tears. My gut tells me to jerk away, but for the first time in years, I feel calm. I smile, my lips ecstatic to have your fingertips dance across my cheek.
"You cut yourself?" Your second hand gently inspects the blood on my fingers and I wince - half out of guilt, and half out of embarrassment. You rise, moving towards the bathroom in search of something. I close my eyes, trying to steady my body. From the bathroom, I hear you shuffling through the contents of the cabinet. Glass is clinking together, boxes are being shaken, and pills are bouncing inside their containers. The clunk of a light switch signals your return.
I raise my eyelids and focus my vision on your features. You frown as you go to work on my cut, your eyebrows making an awkward v above your eyes. I can see the sporadic blemishes along your forehead and temples, spot the scar over your lip, see the crookedness of your nose, and the odd alignment of your eyes. I see how imperfect you are; how you hold the features that made me love you all the more. Something inside me breaks, and I realize that this is not the same nondescript perfection of my dreams.
I reach down, my arm shaking, and I tilt your chin up towards me. I want to kiss you, to feel the lips that have been missing for so long. I want to hug you until we're both pale as ghosts. I want to do so many things with you, but a voice in the back of my mind screams and claws at my conscious until I have no choice but to speak the words that haunt me every hour of everyday. "You're dead."
Without missing a beat, you frown and say, "Am I?"
--------------------------------
It has been awhile since I have made a post. Probably won't get 365 posts for the year, but if the goal was 200 words for each post, I think I am close to on track with word count. Also, I have a few numbers that I have skipped because I started to write but did not complete them. They may or may not be posted eventually. Woops!
Thanks for reading, for the prompt, click here! Have a nice day.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
016 - "500 words or less, flash fiction for League of Legends"
Garen peered around his over-sized hand, attempting to get a look at the board before he let his fingers drop from the king. His eyes darted back and forth between the piece in his finger, and the opponent across from him; neither supplied him with a hint at what would happen next. Begrudgingly, he dropped the piece into place and nodded. "Your move."
As quick as a serpent, Katarina's hand darted across the board, moving her queen to take his lonely bishop. "I do love an old fashioned fork, but this match would be more enjoyable were I able to kill both at once."
"What challenge would there be in that?" Garen hunkered back down, his mind attempting to think of a new plan.
"One does not need a challenge, only victory."
"Typical." Garen snorted, air bursting through his nose like that of a charging bull. "This is a game of military tactics and precision, not some...murder fetish."
"Oh dear boy." Katarina let out a long, drawn out yawn before stretching her arms out wide. "Proper tactics only result in the fulfillment of such a fetish."
"Incorrect." Garen reached a gloved hand down, picking up his queen. The piece danced around the board before eventually returning to it's original location. "Life should be held dear, preserved and protected." He looked to his opponent, who was now sitting sideways in her chair, legs draped over the arm. She met his eyes, giving him a crooked smile. It sent goosebumps down Garen's arms, causing him to swallow so hard it felt as if a rock had taken refuge in his throat. He tried to return the gaze, but all he managed to do was form an unhealthy looking snarl.
"You take too long with this silly game." Katarina pulled a dagger from out of her boot and started spinning it around one of her fingers. "So meticulous and careful, as if each piece is one of your men. The goal is to kill my king, not protect yours."
The white queen danced across the board before Garen leaned back. His shoulders pulled tight as he looked down at the board, a slow nod directed towards Katarina. "Your turn."
"About time." The dagger in Katarina's hand slowly reached out to her rook, which she slide all the way across the board to Garen's back row. Another little smile flickered across her face. "Check."
Garen's face seemed to turn to stone, and he sat, staring at the board without any sign of life. The only noise in the near empty room of the inn was the crackle of the fire in the hearthstone, and the light tapping of Katarina's knife against her chair.
"What is wrong with you?" Katarina clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and sat up straight. "Where is the aggressive man from the battlefield? The man who slays ten foes at once, charging into unbearable odds in the name of his king. Where is the Garen worth killing?" She flicked her dagger out at Garen's king with the intent of knocking it off the board, but he reached out and caught her by the wrist. She laughed, ever so lightly. "Still in there somewhere, is he?"
Garen pushed her wrist aside before reaching down and sliding his knight across the board. "Check."
"Really?" Katarina blinked, her fingers lightly reaching down to fix her new problem. "Check."
"Check." Garen shifted the pieces faster than he had moved all night. His opponent was leaning in now, and she moved so fast, in the way that he had expected, that he was already moving his next piece before he was done with his last. Each turn ramped up higher and higher, with every play ending with one or the other in check. They traded pieces like they traded men, until there were only two kings left on the board.
"You cheated." Mumbled Katarina, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Only Noxian's cheat."
"I wouldn't even need to."
"That never seems to stop you."
"If you're dead and I'm not, it matters not how it happened."
"Not even your dirty tactics will bring you victory on the battlefield."
"I would kill your king and all your men before you even managed to get your giant ass out of that chair."
"You will not lay a finger on my king, my men, or me."
"Try and stop me." A dagger flew from Katarin'a sleeve headed directly at Garen's chest. He darted from the chair, moving in front of the fireplace with a speed that defied his large frame. The dagger whizzed past him, sticking into the chair with a soft thud. His stoney demeanor returned as he locked eyes with Katarina.
"Combat is illegal outside the League." He had no weapon, but he made no move to flee. A Demacian never faltered, never surrendered, and never fled. His gloved fingers inched towards the sword that was usually strapped to his back, but all his grip tightened around was air. He dropped his clenched fists to his side as he prepared to stand his ground, regardless of what would happen next. "Your move, Noxian."
A smile flickered across Katarina's lips as she vaulted over the back of her chair, three new daggers appearing in her hands. "My move?" She let out a light laugh before her body visibly tensed, ready to spring. "Try and stop me, Might of Demacia."
As quick as a serpent, Katarina's hand darted across the board, moving her queen to take his lonely bishop. "I do love an old fashioned fork, but this match would be more enjoyable were I able to kill both at once."
"What challenge would there be in that?" Garen hunkered back down, his mind attempting to think of a new plan.
"One does not need a challenge, only victory."
"Typical." Garen snorted, air bursting through his nose like that of a charging bull. "This is a game of military tactics and precision, not some...murder fetish."
"Oh dear boy." Katarina let out a long, drawn out yawn before stretching her arms out wide. "Proper tactics only result in the fulfillment of such a fetish."
"Incorrect." Garen reached a gloved hand down, picking up his queen. The piece danced around the board before eventually returning to it's original location. "Life should be held dear, preserved and protected." He looked to his opponent, who was now sitting sideways in her chair, legs draped over the arm. She met his eyes, giving him a crooked smile. It sent goosebumps down Garen's arms, causing him to swallow so hard it felt as if a rock had taken refuge in his throat. He tried to return the gaze, but all he managed to do was form an unhealthy looking snarl.
"You take too long with this silly game." Katarina pulled a dagger from out of her boot and started spinning it around one of her fingers. "So meticulous and careful, as if each piece is one of your men. The goal is to kill my king, not protect yours."
The white queen danced across the board before Garen leaned back. His shoulders pulled tight as he looked down at the board, a slow nod directed towards Katarina. "Your turn."
"About time." The dagger in Katarina's hand slowly reached out to her rook, which she slide all the way across the board to Garen's back row. Another little smile flickered across her face. "Check."
Garen's face seemed to turn to stone, and he sat, staring at the board without any sign of life. The only noise in the near empty room of the inn was the crackle of the fire in the hearthstone, and the light tapping of Katarina's knife against her chair.
"What is wrong with you?" Katarina clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and sat up straight. "Where is the aggressive man from the battlefield? The man who slays ten foes at once, charging into unbearable odds in the name of his king. Where is the Garen worth killing?" She flicked her dagger out at Garen's king with the intent of knocking it off the board, but he reached out and caught her by the wrist. She laughed, ever so lightly. "Still in there somewhere, is he?"
Garen pushed her wrist aside before reaching down and sliding his knight across the board. "Check."
"Really?" Katarina blinked, her fingers lightly reaching down to fix her new problem. "Check."
"Check." Garen shifted the pieces faster than he had moved all night. His opponent was leaning in now, and she moved so fast, in the way that he had expected, that he was already moving his next piece before he was done with his last. Each turn ramped up higher and higher, with every play ending with one or the other in check. They traded pieces like they traded men, until there were only two kings left on the board.
"You cheated." Mumbled Katarina, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Only Noxian's cheat."
"I wouldn't even need to."
"That never seems to stop you."
"If you're dead and I'm not, it matters not how it happened."
"Not even your dirty tactics will bring you victory on the battlefield."
"I would kill your king and all your men before you even managed to get your giant ass out of that chair."
"You will not lay a finger on my king, my men, or me."
"Try and stop me." A dagger flew from Katarin'a sleeve headed directly at Garen's chest. He darted from the chair, moving in front of the fireplace with a speed that defied his large frame. The dagger whizzed past him, sticking into the chair with a soft thud. His stoney demeanor returned as he locked eyes with Katarina.
"Combat is illegal outside the League." He had no weapon, but he made no move to flee. A Demacian never faltered, never surrendered, and never fled. His gloved fingers inched towards the sword that was usually strapped to his back, but all his grip tightened around was air. He dropped his clenched fists to his side as he prepared to stand his ground, regardless of what would happen next. "Your move, Noxian."
A smile flickered across Katarina's lips as she vaulted over the back of her chair, three new daggers appearing in her hands. "My move?" She let out a light laugh before her body visibly tensed, ready to spring. "Try and stop me, Might of Demacia."
Sunday, February 9, 2014
015 - "The Rise of the Fallen."
"Hi."
"Hello."
"Is this the right number?"
"It depends. Who are you trying to call?"
"...a helpline."
"Any helpline in particular?"
"The suicide helpline. Aren't you supposed to have some sort of greeting?"
"Supposed to."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Where is the greeting? Why are you just answering the phone like I have the wrong number?"
"I don't much like the greeting. Too cheery."
"How can a greeting be too cheery?"
"Hello! Welcome to the suicide prevention helpline! We want you to know that we care and that your life is important. My name is Jimmy, how may I help you?"
"Are you patronizing me?"
"Could be."
"I'm going to commit suicide."
"No you're not. If you were, you would have done it by now instead of calling me."
"You're not very kind."
"Eh. I'm paid to take up enough of your time for the police to arrive. I'm not paid to care."
"...isn't the whole point of your job to care? To stop people from killing themselves?"
"Nah. My wage is mediocre, so my effort matches it. Like I said, nobody who is going to bother me is going to actually off themselves."
"What if I just wanted an audience?"
"Then you would do it in public."
"Fine, fine."
"Whats your name?"
"Michael."
"Okay Michael, let's have it."
"Have what?"
"Your life story. If you're not gonna off yourself, you might as well tell me an interesting story."
"My life isn't interesting."
"Everyone is interesting, you just need the right audience."
"What makes you the right audience?"
"Have you hung up yet?"
"...no."
"Are you going to?"
"No."
"That makes me the right audience. Thus, Michael, storytime."
"Okay, fine. My dad kicked me out of my home and told me never to return. My family disowned me and said they never wanted to see me again."
"Why did they kick you out?"
"My father is strict. The family obeys him without question. I did too, for awhile, but he got bad. Eventually I couldn't. So I was thrown out."
"And your friends?"
"I wasn't allowed any."
"No friends? Sounds rough."
"I don't know what friends are like. I wouldn't know."
"How do you feel?"
"Worthless, alone, lost, and stuck on a world considered the pit of no hope."
"Yeah, friends will help with that. You should try making some."
"How? I'm, a failure, a castaway left to this hellhole to rot and die with a mess of my father's other failures."
"Have you tried talking to someone?"
"I am."
"Try talking to someone else. I'm just a guy doing his job. Talk to a stranger. Someone random."
"I have no idea how."
"Do you drink coffee?"
"I don't know."
"You don't-alright, do you drink tea? Soda? Booze?"
"I don't know."
"Uh, how about food? Do you eat?"
"I think so."
"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrright, annnnnnnnnnyway, go eat? Meet someone else who eats? Do what you like doing. You like doing things?"
"I think so."
"You could be a bit less vague. What do you like doing?"
"Fighting."
"You sound as if you're just brimming with positive energy. What else?"
"I don't know. Maybe...dancing?"
"Alright, good. Join a dance club, take some lessons. Join a gym and spar with others. Do something other than moping around contemplating suicide. You'll find friends."
"But...whats the point? Why should I bother?"
"You have a world at your finger tips. If you're not going to take your life, you might as well live it."
"A whole world?"
"Yeah, a whole universe if you want to be daring and discover space. Point is, quit your pouting and find something better to do.'
"You're really not very nice."
"Yeah, well, I heard they might be giving me a raise. Once that goes through, maybe I'll work on it."
"You could try just...caring."
"You could try being less of a little bitch. We all have something we could fix."
"I miss my family."
"Your father and family sound like trash. Thank god you got away from them."
"Don't insult them."
"They kicked you out and left you alone. Not much of a family."
"I suppose. Maybe you're right."
"Thats the spirit!"
"Maybe it is."
"Damn straight it is. Anyway, police should be there anytime now. You good?"
"I think so. Thanks."
"No worries.You know what you're going to do?"
"Yeah. I have a whole world out there, just waiting to be conquered."
---------------------
This was based off of an image prompt about a fallen angel, found right here. I wanted to attempt to write a story that was only dialogue based, even if it didn't highly fit the prompt. Ah well. Thank you for reading, and have a nice day!
"Hello."
"Is this the right number?"
"It depends. Who are you trying to call?"
"...a helpline."
"Any helpline in particular?"
"The suicide helpline. Aren't you supposed to have some sort of greeting?"
"Supposed to."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Where is the greeting? Why are you just answering the phone like I have the wrong number?"
"I don't much like the greeting. Too cheery."
"How can a greeting be too cheery?"
"Hello! Welcome to the suicide prevention helpline! We want you to know that we care and that your life is important. My name is Jimmy, how may I help you?"
"Are you patronizing me?"
"Could be."
"I'm going to commit suicide."
"No you're not. If you were, you would have done it by now instead of calling me."
"You're not very kind."
"Eh. I'm paid to take up enough of your time for the police to arrive. I'm not paid to care."
"...isn't the whole point of your job to care? To stop people from killing themselves?"
"Nah. My wage is mediocre, so my effort matches it. Like I said, nobody who is going to bother me is going to actually off themselves."
"What if I just wanted an audience?"
"Then you would do it in public."
"Fine, fine."
"Whats your name?"
"Michael."
"Okay Michael, let's have it."
"Have what?"
"Your life story. If you're not gonna off yourself, you might as well tell me an interesting story."
"My life isn't interesting."
"Everyone is interesting, you just need the right audience."
"What makes you the right audience?"
"Have you hung up yet?"
"...no."
"Are you going to?"
"No."
"That makes me the right audience. Thus, Michael, storytime."
"Okay, fine. My dad kicked me out of my home and told me never to return. My family disowned me and said they never wanted to see me again."
"Why did they kick you out?"
"My father is strict. The family obeys him without question. I did too, for awhile, but he got bad. Eventually I couldn't. So I was thrown out."
"And your friends?"
"I wasn't allowed any."
"No friends? Sounds rough."
"I don't know what friends are like. I wouldn't know."
"How do you feel?"
"Worthless, alone, lost, and stuck on a world considered the pit of no hope."
"Yeah, friends will help with that. You should try making some."
"How? I'm, a failure, a castaway left to this hellhole to rot and die with a mess of my father's other failures."
"Have you tried talking to someone?"
"I am."
"Try talking to someone else. I'm just a guy doing his job. Talk to a stranger. Someone random."
"I have no idea how."
"Do you drink coffee?"
"I don't know."
"You don't-alright, do you drink tea? Soda? Booze?"
"I don't know."
"Uh, how about food? Do you eat?"
"I think so."
"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrright, annnnnnnnnnyway, go eat? Meet someone else who eats? Do what you like doing. You like doing things?"
"I think so."
"You could be a bit less vague. What do you like doing?"
"Fighting."
"You sound as if you're just brimming with positive energy. What else?"
"I don't know. Maybe...dancing?"
"Alright, good. Join a dance club, take some lessons. Join a gym and spar with others. Do something other than moping around contemplating suicide. You'll find friends."
"But...whats the point? Why should I bother?"
"You have a world at your finger tips. If you're not going to take your life, you might as well live it."
"A whole world?"
"Yeah, a whole universe if you want to be daring and discover space. Point is, quit your pouting and find something better to do.'
"You're really not very nice."
"Yeah, well, I heard they might be giving me a raise. Once that goes through, maybe I'll work on it."
"You could try just...caring."
"You could try being less of a little bitch. We all have something we could fix."
"I miss my family."
"Your father and family sound like trash. Thank god you got away from them."
"Don't insult them."
"They kicked you out and left you alone. Not much of a family."
"I suppose. Maybe you're right."
"Thats the spirit!"
"Maybe it is."
"Damn straight it is. Anyway, police should be there anytime now. You good?"
"I think so. Thanks."
"No worries.You know what you're going to do?"
"Yeah. I have a whole world out there, just waiting to be conquered."
---------------------
This was based off of an image prompt about a fallen angel, found right here. I wanted to attempt to write a story that was only dialogue based, even if it didn't highly fit the prompt. Ah well. Thank you for reading, and have a nice day!
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
014 - "Countdown."
Eight minutes. Eight minutes is how long it takes for radiation from the great ball of fire in the sky to burst down upon our fragile little skin, bury between our molecules, and give us the friction-filled sensation of warmth. This means that if you use the jelly inside of your tiny eye sockets to squint into that burning ball of death, what you will be seeing is an eight minute old painting. You're experiencing the past. You're too slow to even be in the present.
Try and remember the last time you were in a classroom. The teacher stood in front of the class, their glasses tilted down at you just enough for you to think they were egotistical. Boredom clung to the back of your skull like a cat convinced you're about to give it a bath. Some nonsensical information was being blasted upon a screen that was both too bright for your weak, hungover mind to handle, but too dark for your glazed, doughnut shaped eyeballs to process.
Now imagine that freezes. Your teacher is stuck, their nose scrunched in rabid frustration as they try to shout the day's lesson into your overbearingly large skull. Spit molecules are sputtered about through the air, hanging like rainwater on a windshield. This scene is stuck with you, unmoving, for eight minutes. It takes eight minutes for any future information to be processed by your eager, budding mind.
Of course, by the time those eight minutes have passed, the sun, or your teacher, are somewhere completely new, doing something completely exciting and wonderful and you weren't invited, because you live eight minutes in the past. If the sun were to decide to up and leave our lost little solar system, you wouldn't even know it for eight whole minutes!
Seven minutes. Well, for the first minute of the sun saying, "Peace out hommie," - like your strange friend who isn't a friend but a roommate of a friend of a friend - for that full, wonderfully encapsulating minute, you were being a dunce. I'm sorry, that was mean. You were staring at the sun. Just zoning out, thinking about what it would be like if that brutally unfair teacher - because you're smarter than them - were to suddenly freeze in time and space. It was funny. It was fantastically, serotonin-releasing, blood-clotting, phone-rupturing, excellence.
But you wasted a whole minute! The last eight minutes of your life and you were day dreaming!
Six minutes. Uh, shit. Last two minutes day dreaming. You should probably spend less time talking with the voices in your head. Yes. But then you would be all alone for the remainder of your life. Those poor, lonely six minutes all alone, sitting in the scratchy green grass that hasn't been mowed in three weeks which is way too long and probably full of ticks and now your ankles itch and you only have six minutes to live but you don't really know that yet.
Five minutes. Alright, alright. Let's be serious now. Seriously, you have five minutes left. What can you do in five minutes? Call your family and tell them you love them? Well, maybe, but you don't love them that much! How about that crush? You could walk to their dorm room. Huh? They live in an apartment? How fancy of them. Are they rich, or just smarter than you?
Okay, okay. I'll be as chill as an Earth without sunshine. I don't mean to be mean, it's just-there are only five min-
Four minutes. Four minutes left of humanity. Is it just me, or did the first minute seem a lot longer than these other minutes? Like knowing that your life is about to end somehow sped up time? Unfair, really. I stare at that clock for hours on end and it never moves, but as soon as I'm enjoying myself, WOOSH, I'm a twenty-seven year old naked man with no home or family and I'm living in a prison cell because it's warmer than the frozen over cardboard box the old lady with the stereotypical homeless cart said was home.
Sorry, sorry. We were talking about you. How much time do you have left, four-
...
No? I'm not being cut off mid countdown again? Alright, so you still have fo-
Three minutes. Oh, now isn't that so darn-tootin annoying. These interruptions are horrendous! Please do something. You only have three minutes left until you look up into that big, bleak sky of endless crushed dreams and realize that the sun has vanished. No more warmth in your section of the great big unknown. Just a frozen tundra, with only the core of the planet to give you warmth. Hey! What a wonderful idea! You could move to Iceland. Dig a giant hole and live near the core of the Earth, under a volcano! You could be the last human ever. Maybe a wonderfully, spectacular species of generous, intelligent creatures would fly their spaceships by and notice your life sign buried deep down under the lush green, freshly mowed grass (that would be frozen over) that is Iceland. Then, they will save you, and whisk you off to explore the universe, to have wonderful misadventures with all sorts of new, exciting, and beautiful things for the rest of your naturally short human life!
You could repopulate humanity!
Two minutes. Yeah, you right, you're probably just going to die. You have two minutes now. Do you really not have any last wishes? No one who is even kinda cute who might live in a nearby dorm-room? You could run there, confess your wonderful, copied and prepared feelings intended for another human, and get some nasty, blood-pumping, kinky, end of the world Mario-kart races in.
...
Or, you know, sex. Can you finish in under a minute? Can you?
One minute. Oh, you've gone and buggered it all now. No-Keep your pants on! Even if you could finish in under a minute, whats the point now? Are you going to go out with your pants around your ankles, in a hot, sticky, itchy mess, thinking of the things you only dreamed of? Oh, look at that. Now you're crying. With your pants around your ankles. Buck up! It was a joke. The sun is fine! I mean, really, eight minutes? You really think that the sun is just going to disappear, and then you'll die in eight minutes? Hah!
Lights out. Well, will you look at that. Sorry, I was joking about the bit where I said I was joking. I didn't want you to cry anymore! You looked like a clown who had run into a mule's arse, then tried to wipe the shit off your face with fire ants and a side of hay-fever. You're looking much better now, though! That look of massive, erection bursting anger mixed with unbridled surprise seems to fit you. You should wear it more often. And pull up your pants. There is some good news!
The good news is, uh, well, maybe I should deliver the bad news first, so that the good news is more goodly? Like when the doctor sits down your family and say, "The bad news is, your 21 year old has cancer and the medical bills are going to cost around 200,000 dollars when all is said and done, even though you have medical insurance. But the good news is, he probably won't die! Probably."
I mean, the bad news is pretty obvious - the sun disappeared eight minutes ago! So, no more sunlight. Or warmth. But good news! Which is, uh, I was lying about the dying in eight minutes part. Obviously, since you're still alive. It'll start getting cold soon - like so cold that even ice will start to get frostbite - so you should probably pull up your pants. Seriously. You're making this weird. Pull them up. And you should probably find more pants, to put on top of your pants. Throw a pants party! Because ocean freezing, vegetation killing, Antarctica-feels-like-Hawaii, cold.
And you should move to Iceland. Because, uh, you have about two weeks before it gets so cold that your tiny, meatless, sinewy arms will snap off in the frigid air faster than you can shout, "Where did the sun go!?" It went on an elongated vacation and it isn't coming home until mommy stops being such a frigid bitch, okay? Okay!?
...
At least you have time to walk to your crush's apartment now. You better not throw away Mario-kart victories to get end of the world sex, either, or I will-
Oh, shit, here comes that teacher we hate. Gotta go. Good luck with the whole lights out thing!
---------------------
Well, that was interesting. Uh, for the original thread, follow this. Thanks for reading, and have an enjoyable afternoon.
Try and remember the last time you were in a classroom. The teacher stood in front of the class, their glasses tilted down at you just enough for you to think they were egotistical. Boredom clung to the back of your skull like a cat convinced you're about to give it a bath. Some nonsensical information was being blasted upon a screen that was both too bright for your weak, hungover mind to handle, but too dark for your glazed, doughnut shaped eyeballs to process.
Now imagine that freezes. Your teacher is stuck, their nose scrunched in rabid frustration as they try to shout the day's lesson into your overbearingly large skull. Spit molecules are sputtered about through the air, hanging like rainwater on a windshield. This scene is stuck with you, unmoving, for eight minutes. It takes eight minutes for any future information to be processed by your eager, budding mind.
Of course, by the time those eight minutes have passed, the sun, or your teacher, are somewhere completely new, doing something completely exciting and wonderful and you weren't invited, because you live eight minutes in the past. If the sun were to decide to up and leave our lost little solar system, you wouldn't even know it for eight whole minutes!
Seven minutes. Well, for the first minute of the sun saying, "Peace out hommie," - like your strange friend who isn't a friend but a roommate of a friend of a friend - for that full, wonderfully encapsulating minute, you were being a dunce. I'm sorry, that was mean. You were staring at the sun. Just zoning out, thinking about what it would be like if that brutally unfair teacher - because you're smarter than them - were to suddenly freeze in time and space. It was funny. It was fantastically, serotonin-releasing, blood-clotting, phone-rupturing, excellence.
But you wasted a whole minute! The last eight minutes of your life and you were day dreaming!
Six minutes. Uh, shit. Last two minutes day dreaming. You should probably spend less time talking with the voices in your head. Yes. But then you would be all alone for the remainder of your life. Those poor, lonely six minutes all alone, sitting in the scratchy green grass that hasn't been mowed in three weeks which is way too long and probably full of ticks and now your ankles itch and you only have six minutes to live but you don't really know that yet.
Five minutes. Alright, alright. Let's be serious now. Seriously, you have five minutes left. What can you do in five minutes? Call your family and tell them you love them? Well, maybe, but you don't love them that much! How about that crush? You could walk to their dorm room. Huh? They live in an apartment? How fancy of them. Are they rich, or just smarter than you?
Okay, okay. I'll be as chill as an Earth without sunshine. I don't mean to be mean, it's just-there are only five min-
Four minutes. Four minutes left of humanity. Is it just me, or did the first minute seem a lot longer than these other minutes? Like knowing that your life is about to end somehow sped up time? Unfair, really. I stare at that clock for hours on end and it never moves, but as soon as I'm enjoying myself, WOOSH, I'm a twenty-seven year old naked man with no home or family and I'm living in a prison cell because it's warmer than the frozen over cardboard box the old lady with the stereotypical homeless cart said was home.
Sorry, sorry. We were talking about you. How much time do you have left, four-
...
No? I'm not being cut off mid countdown again? Alright, so you still have fo-
Three minutes. Oh, now isn't that so darn-tootin annoying. These interruptions are horrendous! Please do something. You only have three minutes left until you look up into that big, bleak sky of endless crushed dreams and realize that the sun has vanished. No more warmth in your section of the great big unknown. Just a frozen tundra, with only the core of the planet to give you warmth. Hey! What a wonderful idea! You could move to Iceland. Dig a giant hole and live near the core of the Earth, under a volcano! You could be the last human ever. Maybe a wonderfully, spectacular species of generous, intelligent creatures would fly their spaceships by and notice your life sign buried deep down under the lush green, freshly mowed grass (that would be frozen over) that is Iceland. Then, they will save you, and whisk you off to explore the universe, to have wonderful misadventures with all sorts of new, exciting, and beautiful things for the rest of your naturally short human life!
You could repopulate humanity!
Two minutes. Yeah, you right, you're probably just going to die. You have two minutes now. Do you really not have any last wishes? No one who is even kinda cute who might live in a nearby dorm-room? You could run there, confess your wonderful, copied and prepared feelings intended for another human, and get some nasty, blood-pumping, kinky, end of the world Mario-kart races in.
...
Or, you know, sex. Can you finish in under a minute? Can you?
One minute. Oh, you've gone and buggered it all now. No-Keep your pants on! Even if you could finish in under a minute, whats the point now? Are you going to go out with your pants around your ankles, in a hot, sticky, itchy mess, thinking of the things you only dreamed of? Oh, look at that. Now you're crying. With your pants around your ankles. Buck up! It was a joke. The sun is fine! I mean, really, eight minutes? You really think that the sun is just going to disappear, and then you'll die in eight minutes? Hah!
Lights out. Well, will you look at that. Sorry, I was joking about the bit where I said I was joking. I didn't want you to cry anymore! You looked like a clown who had run into a mule's arse, then tried to wipe the shit off your face with fire ants and a side of hay-fever. You're looking much better now, though! That look of massive, erection bursting anger mixed with unbridled surprise seems to fit you. You should wear it more often. And pull up your pants. There is some good news!
The good news is, uh, well, maybe I should deliver the bad news first, so that the good news is more goodly? Like when the doctor sits down your family and say, "The bad news is, your 21 year old has cancer and the medical bills are going to cost around 200,000 dollars when all is said and done, even though you have medical insurance. But the good news is, he probably won't die! Probably."
I mean, the bad news is pretty obvious - the sun disappeared eight minutes ago! So, no more sunlight. Or warmth. But good news! Which is, uh, I was lying about the dying in eight minutes part. Obviously, since you're still alive. It'll start getting cold soon - like so cold that even ice will start to get frostbite - so you should probably pull up your pants. Seriously. You're making this weird. Pull them up. And you should probably find more pants, to put on top of your pants. Throw a pants party! Because ocean freezing, vegetation killing, Antarctica-feels-like-Hawaii, cold.
And you should move to Iceland. Because, uh, you have about two weeks before it gets so cold that your tiny, meatless, sinewy arms will snap off in the frigid air faster than you can shout, "Where did the sun go!?" It went on an elongated vacation and it isn't coming home until mommy stops being such a frigid bitch, okay? Okay!?
...
At least you have time to walk to your crush's apartment now. You better not throw away Mario-kart victories to get end of the world sex, either, or I will-
Oh, shit, here comes that teacher we hate. Gotta go. Good luck with the whole lights out thing!
---------------------
Well, that was interesting. Uh, for the original thread, follow this. Thanks for reading, and have an enjoyable afternoon.
Monday, February 3, 2014
013 - "Without saying the word love, write the most passionate love letter you can imagine."
Dear Little Lady,
Men are a curse upon the land that no natural calamity can fix. I, among such a low, unworthy species, share in this poor demeanor. I am sloppy, crude, crass, unreasonable, furious, and without a positive quality. I am a broken creature left to suffer with those who had wronged the universe in some forgotten and impossible way.
This is what I used to believe, before I stumbled into your presence. If men were a plague to be cast down upon the Earth, then it is with all my heart that I believe women were sent to fix such a mistake. Nothing holds the ability to tame man like that of a beautiful woman. I have witnessed men turn from the foulest of rabid beasts, to the most respectable, heaven blessed gift this galaxy could hope to see. Women have a way of taking darkness and spinning it into a thread blessed of purity.
For you, the most fetching of all women, I must admit that I have relinquished all control. My heart has not been my own since we first embraced, nor has my mind been in such a clear state as when I look upon thee. You have become my world, my home, and nothing would destroy me more than to have you lost in the oceans of man's destruction.
I am nothing without you. Please, return to me with the utmost haste.
Men are a curse upon the land that no natural calamity can fix. I, among such a low, unworthy species, share in this poor demeanor. I am sloppy, crude, crass, unreasonable, furious, and without a positive quality. I am a broken creature left to suffer with those who had wronged the universe in some forgotten and impossible way.
This is what I used to believe, before I stumbled into your presence. If men were a plague to be cast down upon the Earth, then it is with all my heart that I believe women were sent to fix such a mistake. Nothing holds the ability to tame man like that of a beautiful woman. I have witnessed men turn from the foulest of rabid beasts, to the most respectable, heaven blessed gift this galaxy could hope to see. Women have a way of taking darkness and spinning it into a thread blessed of purity.
For you, the most fetching of all women, I must admit that I have relinquished all control. My heart has not been my own since we first embraced, nor has my mind been in such a clear state as when I look upon thee. You have become my world, my home, and nothing would destroy me more than to have you lost in the oceans of man's destruction.
I am nothing without you. Please, return to me with the utmost haste.
Yours forever,
Lost Gentleman
-----------------------------
I maybe could have done this one better. Maybe. I'm not sure yet. For more from other lovely writers, follow this link! Have a nice day, and thank you for reading!
012 - "Let's run away."
It was early in the morning when my life changed. Maybe late at night, depending on what kind of person you are. As a detective, all times are both early and late. You get a call, you go to work. They tell you that nobody has touched the crime scene. They said that they had waited until I arrived. As soon as I stepped into the abandoned hotel room, I knew why.
For most people, the first thing that they would notice would have been the blood. It was spattered about the room as if a platter of red paint had been strewn across the room. Some of it had caked the walls for long enough that it had begun to dry, falling away with the scratch of a fingernail as if a ketchup stain on an old shirt. It smelled of iron and made your teeth feel suddenly heavy.
They might have noticed the bodies first. There were three of them. Two of them looked to have been bled dry, dark, thick pools of blood surrounding their bodies like a moat. The third was set up like a pawn in a chess match. It was a male, with a joker-esque smile carved into his face. His hair and clothes were similar to mine. He was tied to a chair, both of his bruised and battered hands placed out on the table in front of him. The corpse was holding a map spread out. Various marks were on the map from previous crimes. There was a dark red X exactly where the hotel was.
But as a detective, I had already seen too many scenes like this. I had already seen too many exactly like this one. It was my case. It was my serial killer. No, the first thing I noticed was the map, and the message that had been left for me. Over the location of my home were three rows of scrabble letters. They had been arranged to form three distinct words. "Let's run away." It was not the first message that had been left for me, but it was the worst. I knew what it meant.
I remember my stomach churning. I remember my senses suddenly being assaulted with the stench of blood, of the sudden sight of mutilated corpses all around me. It was as if I had awoken from a nightmare to find myself in another horrifying dream. My feet sloshed through puddles of dark, sticky blood as I backed away. I was overcome with the morbid scene, and I closed my eyes, trying to push it all away.
Let's run away. Let's run away. The words ran through my nauseated mind and I ran. I don't know where I ran, just that I fled the crime scene faster than a predator hunting it's prey. I was in my car and on the road before I realized what I was doing. I was home before I had a plan. I was vomiting before I even made it up the sidewalk to my door. I was on my knees, in a pool of my wife's blood, before I heard it out-loud: "Let's run away."
----------------------------
Could have been better, but it'll do. For more, and the source image, click here. Thanks for reading, and have a nice day!
For most people, the first thing that they would notice would have been the blood. It was spattered about the room as if a platter of red paint had been strewn across the room. Some of it had caked the walls for long enough that it had begun to dry, falling away with the scratch of a fingernail as if a ketchup stain on an old shirt. It smelled of iron and made your teeth feel suddenly heavy.
They might have noticed the bodies first. There were three of them. Two of them looked to have been bled dry, dark, thick pools of blood surrounding their bodies like a moat. The third was set up like a pawn in a chess match. It was a male, with a joker-esque smile carved into his face. His hair and clothes were similar to mine. He was tied to a chair, both of his bruised and battered hands placed out on the table in front of him. The corpse was holding a map spread out. Various marks were on the map from previous crimes. There was a dark red X exactly where the hotel was.
But as a detective, I had already seen too many scenes like this. I had already seen too many exactly like this one. It was my case. It was my serial killer. No, the first thing I noticed was the map, and the message that had been left for me. Over the location of my home were three rows of scrabble letters. They had been arranged to form three distinct words. "Let's run away." It was not the first message that had been left for me, but it was the worst. I knew what it meant.
I remember my stomach churning. I remember my senses suddenly being assaulted with the stench of blood, of the sudden sight of mutilated corpses all around me. It was as if I had awoken from a nightmare to find myself in another horrifying dream. My feet sloshed through puddles of dark, sticky blood as I backed away. I was overcome with the morbid scene, and I closed my eyes, trying to push it all away.
Let's run away. Let's run away. The words ran through my nauseated mind and I ran. I don't know where I ran, just that I fled the crime scene faster than a predator hunting it's prey. I was in my car and on the road before I realized what I was doing. I was home before I had a plan. I was vomiting before I even made it up the sidewalk to my door. I was on my knees, in a pool of my wife's blood, before I heard it out-loud: "Let's run away."
----------------------------
Could have been better, but it'll do. For more, and the source image, click here. Thanks for reading, and have a nice day!
Sunday, February 2, 2014
011 - "A disease is causing starfish's legs to crawl away in opposite directions until they tear away from its body - it spreads to humans."
Conspiracy theorists are the worst. Why, you must ask? They take every coincidence and turn it into a plot. They make you question reality, because you can rarely be one-hundred percent certain that the creator of these theories is crazy. Their questions are always so intriguing, and the answers so elusive. If you read enough of these theories, you start to wonder on the possibilities of the universe. Do aliens exist? Do humans exist? Do you exist?
The worst of these theories are the ones that have you questioning humanity. We are not a perfect species, but I would like to think that we are, overall, a rather positive form of evolution. Of course, hippies would like to remind you that we are constantly destroying the planet and its contents simply so that we may live in utter convenience - but what do these people know? We may destroy a few things here and there; but we create - oh boy do we ever create.
When evolution came along, I bet it never thought these hairless apes would ever get to space. I bet it never considered that we may one day be the dominate species of not only the plains, but the forests, the mountains, the sky, and the sea. Our ability to use tools is a marvelous gift - one that conspiracy theorists would have us believe is our downfall.
The theories I speak of are those of disease. These ideas date back hundreds of years to the creation of the black plague. Now, school children speak of it as a fairy tale, a story of how those devilish rats brought a terrible curse to humans. But was it the rats? Were the rats really the ones at fault, or could the humans have prevented it by being cleaner? By focusing more on medicine, and less on warfare? Taking a step back...how did the rats come to carry such a disease in the first place?
But the black plague was centuries ago. It no longer affects us. It is a dream. And yet, we manage to gather up and suffer from loads of other disease - all brought by animals. The most prominent of our age, of course, being HIV, and its child, AIDS. A disease that was discovered during a time of civil change, when the world was beginning to question how society works...and suddenly a disease appears that is said to target only gay men? These theorists would have you believe that there is no such thing as a coincidence.
I would have called them all fools, if it were not for our latest curse - the plague of the starfish. It was a myth, at first, as all things dangerous often are. There were pictures thrown around the internet of starfish who had torn themselves limb from limb. Impossible! It must be framed - set up, a ruse, some clever contraption to receive precious internet fame. Until it happened again. Another starfish tore itself apart, its limbs pulling in opposite directions until they simply popped off. It was horrendous. Terribly interesting, but horrendous all the same.
So we studied it. It appeared to be a genetic mutation, this disease. But there is no such thing as coincidence. The scientists were given mounds upon mounds of dead starfish to study, until they were practically covered in the broken and spattered limbs. For some, it was a researchers wet dream; for others, it was a nightmare of Hollywood proportions.
A scientist came forward, saying that they thought the disease may have been engineered. He was the first to go. The police thought he had been murdered, made to look like the starfish he had spent so many months studying. Until another one of his team-members died. And then another. And another. And then the crime investigator who had studied all of the victims, quickly followed by the rest of the police force. There were no such things as a coincidence.
From there, the disease spread beyond our control. We tried to quarantine it, to lock it down and have it eradicated, but we had no way of telling who had contracted it until their limbs were suddenly pulling in opposite directions. It spread and it spread, like limbs reaching outwards to the edges of humanity, until our very species was torn apart. We are no longer the lords of the sea, sky, mountains, or forests. We are losing our control of the plains. We are losing control of ourselves. There is no such thing as a coincidence.
---------------------
011 is taking the place of 010 because 010 is a long one that is still being edited! It shall appear when I am happy with it (as it is the only short story I have felt is a real short story so far), which will likely make it terribly out of order. Oops!
For the source of this prompt, clicky wicky! Thank you, and have a nice day!
The worst of these theories are the ones that have you questioning humanity. We are not a perfect species, but I would like to think that we are, overall, a rather positive form of evolution. Of course, hippies would like to remind you that we are constantly destroying the planet and its contents simply so that we may live in utter convenience - but what do these people know? We may destroy a few things here and there; but we create - oh boy do we ever create.
When evolution came along, I bet it never thought these hairless apes would ever get to space. I bet it never considered that we may one day be the dominate species of not only the plains, but the forests, the mountains, the sky, and the sea. Our ability to use tools is a marvelous gift - one that conspiracy theorists would have us believe is our downfall.
The theories I speak of are those of disease. These ideas date back hundreds of years to the creation of the black plague. Now, school children speak of it as a fairy tale, a story of how those devilish rats brought a terrible curse to humans. But was it the rats? Were the rats really the ones at fault, or could the humans have prevented it by being cleaner? By focusing more on medicine, and less on warfare? Taking a step back...how did the rats come to carry such a disease in the first place?
But the black plague was centuries ago. It no longer affects us. It is a dream. And yet, we manage to gather up and suffer from loads of other disease - all brought by animals. The most prominent of our age, of course, being HIV, and its child, AIDS. A disease that was discovered during a time of civil change, when the world was beginning to question how society works...and suddenly a disease appears that is said to target only gay men? These theorists would have you believe that there is no such thing as a coincidence.
I would have called them all fools, if it were not for our latest curse - the plague of the starfish. It was a myth, at first, as all things dangerous often are. There were pictures thrown around the internet of starfish who had torn themselves limb from limb. Impossible! It must be framed - set up, a ruse, some clever contraption to receive precious internet fame. Until it happened again. Another starfish tore itself apart, its limbs pulling in opposite directions until they simply popped off. It was horrendous. Terribly interesting, but horrendous all the same.
So we studied it. It appeared to be a genetic mutation, this disease. But there is no such thing as coincidence. The scientists were given mounds upon mounds of dead starfish to study, until they were practically covered in the broken and spattered limbs. For some, it was a researchers wet dream; for others, it was a nightmare of Hollywood proportions.
A scientist came forward, saying that they thought the disease may have been engineered. He was the first to go. The police thought he had been murdered, made to look like the starfish he had spent so many months studying. Until another one of his team-members died. And then another. And another. And then the crime investigator who had studied all of the victims, quickly followed by the rest of the police force. There were no such things as a coincidence.
From there, the disease spread beyond our control. We tried to quarantine it, to lock it down and have it eradicated, but we had no way of telling who had contracted it until their limbs were suddenly pulling in opposite directions. It spread and it spread, like limbs reaching outwards to the edges of humanity, until our very species was torn apart. We are no longer the lords of the sea, sky, mountains, or forests. We are losing our control of the plains. We are losing control of ourselves. There is no such thing as a coincidence.
---------------------
011 is taking the place of 010 because 010 is a long one that is still being edited! It shall appear when I am happy with it (as it is the only short story I have felt is a real short story so far), which will likely make it terribly out of order. Oops!
For the source of this prompt, clicky wicky! Thank you, and have a nice day!
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
009 - "A friendly hug gets weird."
It hadn't been the smartest decision to rush out of my house, still dripping wet from my shower, to hug my best friend. It hadn't been smart at all.
I had forgotten how cold it was. It was the middle of winter, so there was no surprise that it was cold. Our lovely section of the world had been covered in snow for months by the time January rolled around, and the below zero temperatures were expected every morning. I had grown so used to it that twenty above felt like heaven. It was a day worthy of going outside with no jacket; a day to enjoy the weather, despite snow still clinging to the ground as if they were long lost lovers.
I had forgotten how cold it was, and I had forgotten how good it felt to hug my best friend. It had been years since I had seen her. All I had wanted to do for two years was spend just five more minutes with her. It felt as if a piece of myself had been torn away when she moved. My life had been torn in half.
When we were together, we were told that we appeared inseparable. Like twins, they said. She used to finish my sentences. We took all of our classes together, worked together, lived together. We shared a bed, without sexual contact, for two years. I had never been apart of something more amazing, and it haunted me every day. When she arrived, nothing could hold me back from rushing out to see her. Nothing could stop me from hugging her.
And now, sitting in the emergency room, we were inseparable yet again. This time, however, it was because we had frozen together.
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For more on this prompt, follow this link. Thanks for reading, and have a nice day!
I had forgotten how cold it was. It was the middle of winter, so there was no surprise that it was cold. Our lovely section of the world had been covered in snow for months by the time January rolled around, and the below zero temperatures were expected every morning. I had grown so used to it that twenty above felt like heaven. It was a day worthy of going outside with no jacket; a day to enjoy the weather, despite snow still clinging to the ground as if they were long lost lovers.
I had forgotten how cold it was, and I had forgotten how good it felt to hug my best friend. It had been years since I had seen her. All I had wanted to do for two years was spend just five more minutes with her. It felt as if a piece of myself had been torn away when she moved. My life had been torn in half.
When we were together, we were told that we appeared inseparable. Like twins, they said. She used to finish my sentences. We took all of our classes together, worked together, lived together. We shared a bed, without sexual contact, for two years. I had never been apart of something more amazing, and it haunted me every day. When she arrived, nothing could hold me back from rushing out to see her. Nothing could stop me from hugging her.
And now, sitting in the emergency room, we were inseparable yet again. This time, however, it was because we had frozen together.
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For more on this prompt, follow this link. Thanks for reading, and have a nice day!
008 - "What is unusual about eel sperm, and why is it relevant for a United States district court case?"
"They are injecting eel sperm into their veins?" Judge Malorn leaned back in his chair, looking over both of the lawyers in front of him. They were standing side by side, waiting for him to reach a decision. The problem was, the case they were presenting him with was absurd.
"Yes indeed." The lawyer to the judge's left, the prosecutor, shrugged. "People will inject whatever gets them high. Not my place to judge."
"No, Dan," The second lawyer, the defendant, sat down and shook his head. "But it is, apparently, your job to chase down the most pointless of cases."
"Come on Pat, I just do what I'm told." Dan smiled wide. "If someone wants me to prosecute some kids for selling eel sperm, then that is what I am going to do."
"Sure." Pat shook his head. "Except this isn't even illegal yet. There is no law against injecting sperm into your arm. Are you going to prosecute kids for eating play-dough now too?"
"If someone tells me too." Dan rocked back and forth on his heels. "A few teenagers are dead. The defendant sold them the eel sperm and told them it would get them high."
"Does it?" Malorn turned his chair away from his desk to look out his window. There wasn't much scenery to see from his corner office, but he enjoyed watching the people walk past outside. It reminded him of why he had accepted the opportunity to be a judge.
"Does it what?" Dan paused.
"Get them high. Does it work as a narcotic?" The judge started to tap his heel against the wheel of his chair.
"In the correct doses." Dan shook his head and shrugged. "But you know teenagers. Nobody told them what the right doses were. They were sold a bunch, and they took a bunch. Killed them as much as any other drug kills a person."
"My client was selling it as a joke. There was no intention of his friends actually injecting it." Pat folded his hands across his lap and released a sigh. "It isn't a narcotic. It isn't illegal."
"Doesn't matter." Dan smiled again, only glancing at Pat out of the corner of his eye. "If the narcotic bit doesn't stick, there is the aspect of manslaughter. Two teenagers are dead off this practical joke." He looked down at the judge, his face stiffening. "If a practical joke was the intention."
"Right." Malorn spun his chair back around to face the two lawyers. Their demeanor were almost the complete opposite. He had worked with them both before, and he understood what their actions implied. Dan had a case, and Pat was uncertain that he would be able to defend his client. "Eel sperm is not a narcotic." He gave an apologetic look to Pat. "But two teenagers are dead because of your client. I am sorry to say, but this case is going to court."
-------------------
Thanks for reading! For more, click this link. Have a nice day, ladies, gentleman, and anyone in-between or out-between.
"Yes indeed." The lawyer to the judge's left, the prosecutor, shrugged. "People will inject whatever gets them high. Not my place to judge."
"No, Dan," The second lawyer, the defendant, sat down and shook his head. "But it is, apparently, your job to chase down the most pointless of cases."
"Come on Pat, I just do what I'm told." Dan smiled wide. "If someone wants me to prosecute some kids for selling eel sperm, then that is what I am going to do."
"Sure." Pat shook his head. "Except this isn't even illegal yet. There is no law against injecting sperm into your arm. Are you going to prosecute kids for eating play-dough now too?"
"If someone tells me too." Dan rocked back and forth on his heels. "A few teenagers are dead. The defendant sold them the eel sperm and told them it would get them high."
"Does it?" Malorn turned his chair away from his desk to look out his window. There wasn't much scenery to see from his corner office, but he enjoyed watching the people walk past outside. It reminded him of why he had accepted the opportunity to be a judge.
"Does it what?" Dan paused.
"Get them high. Does it work as a narcotic?" The judge started to tap his heel against the wheel of his chair.
"In the correct doses." Dan shook his head and shrugged. "But you know teenagers. Nobody told them what the right doses were. They were sold a bunch, and they took a bunch. Killed them as much as any other drug kills a person."
"My client was selling it as a joke. There was no intention of his friends actually injecting it." Pat folded his hands across his lap and released a sigh. "It isn't a narcotic. It isn't illegal."
"Doesn't matter." Dan smiled again, only glancing at Pat out of the corner of his eye. "If the narcotic bit doesn't stick, there is the aspect of manslaughter. Two teenagers are dead off this practical joke." He looked down at the judge, his face stiffening. "If a practical joke was the intention."
"Right." Malorn spun his chair back around to face the two lawyers. Their demeanor were almost the complete opposite. He had worked with them both before, and he understood what their actions implied. Dan had a case, and Pat was uncertain that he would be able to defend his client. "Eel sperm is not a narcotic." He gave an apologetic look to Pat. "But two teenagers are dead because of your client. I am sorry to say, but this case is going to court."
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Thanks for reading! For more, click this link. Have a nice day, ladies, gentleman, and anyone in-between or out-between.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
007 - "In a fantasy world, the final battle between the two most powerful wizards is taking place: One is about to close the source for all magic, rendering all healers and wizards in the world useless. The other one is a tyrant."
Marcus had not lived a long life. It had only been a week since he had turned twenty, and yet he held the unfortunate feeling that his life was about to be over. The world around him had become completely torn apart by magic to the point where it was unrecognizable; at which point, it was then torn asunder again and again until one would believe that the creatures of the deep had clawed their way out in a fury reserved for only gods and wizards.
It would have been vain of Marcus to speak of his experience with gods, but as far as wizards went, Marcus was ready to suggest that none had been more furious than he. The people he had come to protect were likely dead. His friends had been lost in the desolation of the terrain around the young wizard. His body and mind were exhausted. If he had not appeared whole from the outside, Marcus would have sworn that his body was slowly being torn apart, atom by atom.
All of this filled the young wizard with more anger - and more power - than his little world had ever known. His opponent was a stones throw away, conjuring yet another fireball to unleash upon Marcus, but Marcus was far busier than a single spell. He was providing the area with a shield that would keep the destruction to a limited selection of land. There was also the matter of providing a shield for himself, in hopes that the elder wizard would not burn him like a roasted chicken leg. Between these two shields, he was conjuring a storm that would strike down his foe with lightning so swift his eyes could not even spot it. To top it all off, he was attempting to conjure a spell so powerful that it would eliminate magic from his world forever.
It had not been the plan he had entered the fight with. He had been excited for such a battle, ready to try his strength against the man - Papoi - who had been marked as the most dangerous wizard in the world. He had combed his hair over. The robes he was wearing had been a myriad of colors, painted in a mosaic that resembled the wizard tower he had once studied in. His feet had been warm and snug in the ruby and sun-kissed slippers he had worn. Now, after hours of struggling, his robe was but a ragged cloth on his back, his slippers husks of melted silk, and his hair a sweaty clump of stress. The battle had not gone according to plan.
In fact, Marcus knew he should be dead. While he struggled to maintain four spells at once, his opponent had consistently put all of his power into one blast at a time. No shields, no protection, just full out destruction. Papoi was set on destroying everything at once, not just Marcus. The elder wizard - the eldest of all wizards - had been the cause of all the world's latest pain. He had taken it upon himself to rule over those he considered weak. His goal had been to make the world stronger, but his means of execution towards those goals produced results of rather dismal means. Not much of the world was left to be considered weak.
The fireball was released, and Marcus closed his eyes in anticipation. He could feel the spell collide with his shield as if the barrier were apart of himself. His body roared in defiance, each muscles and bone feeling as if gravity were about to drag him down. When Marcus opened his eyes, he felt a bit of relief course down his spine. The outer barrier had been destroyed, but his was still in-tact. Again, his opponent had been trying to destroy both barriers, instead of attempting to disable Marcus. A sigh escaped him as he finally decided what to do. The fight would not last much longer if he continued down this path. He was not strong enough to win. Not with magic.
His barrier dissipated, as did the storm that raged above him. Marcus let his eyes wander over the freshly burning ground before picking up a rock at his feet. With a sad smile, he began to walk towards the other wizard.
"Have you given in?" Asked the elder. Papoi gave out a small chortle before clapping his thin, boney hands together. "Good, good, I didn't much want to kill you. I've yet to see a man as interesting as you."
Marcus nodded, his eyes drifting to the sky. Through the smoke and ruin he could see the stars scattered about. They reminded him of a more peaceful time, in a tower hidden away from the world's strife.
"You must say something, now, or an old man might start to wonder if you're up to something, boy." Papoi let out another laugh, but the smile dropped from his face when he noticed the rock in Marcus' hand. "Come now, are you surrendering or not?"
"I'm tired." The words felt as dry as the terrain around him. He cleared his throat, straining for saliva to articulate his words. "I can't do it any longer." The rock dropped from his hands and he drew to a halt, only a few steps away from Papoi.
"Good." A snarl crept across Papoi's face. "Have you come to join me, or to die like the rest of this pitiful world's weak men?"
Marcus pondered the thought for awhile, his eyes drifting back to the sky. He hadn't wanted to die. He was young, talented, and ready to be the greatest wizard the world had ever known. But their wasn't much of a world left, and not many people to admire him, either. He put what strength he had left into a miniscule shrug. "Both, unfortunetely."
With one last surge of furious power, Marcus released the spell that had been building up within him. As usual, Papoi rushed to let forth a blast of flames that would incinerate Marcus - but he did not prepare a shield. The magic rushed out of the young wizard like water from a gyser. It reached forward, gripping a-hold of Papoi's heart and binding him with Marcus. The older man seemed confused, his spell dissipating beyond his control.
Closing his eyes, Marcus felt a rush of tears storming against his eyelids. "I can not let you live, Papoi. Even if it means I must destroy that which I love most." He laughed silently, before condensing the spell inward, destroying the connection between wizard and magic. The energy that tied the men with the magic broke apart, and with it, Marcus felt his heart burst. His body finally gave out, dropping him to the smoldering rocks below. He tried to think of a better time, of a better life, but when he heard Papoi drop to the ground besides him, all he could imagine was a dark, desolate world without magic.
--------------------
Thank you to this guy and his thread for the prompt. Thanks for reading, and have a nice day!
It would have been vain of Marcus to speak of his experience with gods, but as far as wizards went, Marcus was ready to suggest that none had been more furious than he. The people he had come to protect were likely dead. His friends had been lost in the desolation of the terrain around the young wizard. His body and mind were exhausted. If he had not appeared whole from the outside, Marcus would have sworn that his body was slowly being torn apart, atom by atom.
All of this filled the young wizard with more anger - and more power - than his little world had ever known. His opponent was a stones throw away, conjuring yet another fireball to unleash upon Marcus, but Marcus was far busier than a single spell. He was providing the area with a shield that would keep the destruction to a limited selection of land. There was also the matter of providing a shield for himself, in hopes that the elder wizard would not burn him like a roasted chicken leg. Between these two shields, he was conjuring a storm that would strike down his foe with lightning so swift his eyes could not even spot it. To top it all off, he was attempting to conjure a spell so powerful that it would eliminate magic from his world forever.
It had not been the plan he had entered the fight with. He had been excited for such a battle, ready to try his strength against the man - Papoi - who had been marked as the most dangerous wizard in the world. He had combed his hair over. The robes he was wearing had been a myriad of colors, painted in a mosaic that resembled the wizard tower he had once studied in. His feet had been warm and snug in the ruby and sun-kissed slippers he had worn. Now, after hours of struggling, his robe was but a ragged cloth on his back, his slippers husks of melted silk, and his hair a sweaty clump of stress. The battle had not gone according to plan.
In fact, Marcus knew he should be dead. While he struggled to maintain four spells at once, his opponent had consistently put all of his power into one blast at a time. No shields, no protection, just full out destruction. Papoi was set on destroying everything at once, not just Marcus. The elder wizard - the eldest of all wizards - had been the cause of all the world's latest pain. He had taken it upon himself to rule over those he considered weak. His goal had been to make the world stronger, but his means of execution towards those goals produced results of rather dismal means. Not much of the world was left to be considered weak.
The fireball was released, and Marcus closed his eyes in anticipation. He could feel the spell collide with his shield as if the barrier were apart of himself. His body roared in defiance, each muscles and bone feeling as if gravity were about to drag him down. When Marcus opened his eyes, he felt a bit of relief course down his spine. The outer barrier had been destroyed, but his was still in-tact. Again, his opponent had been trying to destroy both barriers, instead of attempting to disable Marcus. A sigh escaped him as he finally decided what to do. The fight would not last much longer if he continued down this path. He was not strong enough to win. Not with magic.
His barrier dissipated, as did the storm that raged above him. Marcus let his eyes wander over the freshly burning ground before picking up a rock at his feet. With a sad smile, he began to walk towards the other wizard.
"Have you given in?" Asked the elder. Papoi gave out a small chortle before clapping his thin, boney hands together. "Good, good, I didn't much want to kill you. I've yet to see a man as interesting as you."
Marcus nodded, his eyes drifting to the sky. Through the smoke and ruin he could see the stars scattered about. They reminded him of a more peaceful time, in a tower hidden away from the world's strife.
"You must say something, now, or an old man might start to wonder if you're up to something, boy." Papoi let out another laugh, but the smile dropped from his face when he noticed the rock in Marcus' hand. "Come now, are you surrendering or not?"
"I'm tired." The words felt as dry as the terrain around him. He cleared his throat, straining for saliva to articulate his words. "I can't do it any longer." The rock dropped from his hands and he drew to a halt, only a few steps away from Papoi.
"Good." A snarl crept across Papoi's face. "Have you come to join me, or to die like the rest of this pitiful world's weak men?"
Marcus pondered the thought for awhile, his eyes drifting back to the sky. He hadn't wanted to die. He was young, talented, and ready to be the greatest wizard the world had ever known. But their wasn't much of a world left, and not many people to admire him, either. He put what strength he had left into a miniscule shrug. "Both, unfortunetely."
With one last surge of furious power, Marcus released the spell that had been building up within him. As usual, Papoi rushed to let forth a blast of flames that would incinerate Marcus - but he did not prepare a shield. The magic rushed out of the young wizard like water from a gyser. It reached forward, gripping a-hold of Papoi's heart and binding him with Marcus. The older man seemed confused, his spell dissipating beyond his control.
Closing his eyes, Marcus felt a rush of tears storming against his eyelids. "I can not let you live, Papoi. Even if it means I must destroy that which I love most." He laughed silently, before condensing the spell inward, destroying the connection between wizard and magic. The energy that tied the men with the magic broke apart, and with it, Marcus felt his heart burst. His body finally gave out, dropping him to the smoldering rocks below. He tried to think of a better time, of a better life, but when he heard Papoi drop to the ground besides him, all he could imagine was a dark, desolate world without magic.
--------------------
Thank you to this guy and his thread for the prompt. Thanks for reading, and have a nice day!
006 - Writing Prompt - "The death sentence is an actual sentence that when spoken, will instantly kill someone."
Just like all things that man has a hand in, the emergence of magic was a constructed event. To many, it was the natural progression of things: first there were tools made from the earth, then these tools combined into bigger and better objects, followed by the creation of fuel and electric powered tools. It was only logical that the next step in the evolution of our tools would be making tools out of the molecules in the air.
It was maintained as a secret for a long time. The public was distracted with the war, believing it was a simple threat on their freedoms. This was not true. World War 3 was fought over the secrets of magic - some countries believed that if they could not have it, then no one should. They failed to eliminate the research that had been done. They failed to stop the natural progression of humanity.
As with all things man deals with, the secret was not to be kept for long. With the reappearance of public executions after the war, a controlled test was to be done. It was intended to be for a small audience of potential investors, but as with all things in the age of magic, news traveled fast.
Men were killed with but a string of words. No, it was a trick of the eye - a magic trick! They were injected with something. There were no tubes. Then they were injected with a slower reacting chemical before the show! No chemical would have allowed them to walk onto stage, looking so healthy. Then a microscopic robot was used to kill them! The arguments reigned on and on until eventually, the sponsors of the execution stepped forward to make an annoucement. It was the day the world changed. It was the day the new calendar began. It was the day magic was born.
The video was shown world-wide with a narrator walking everyone through the events. He gave a brief history of magic - the same I have provided before my story - and then went into great detail about the events at the execution. Ten men had been brought forth for crimes against humanity. All of them were war criminals. All of them had been voted for death by the general public. All of them were to be provided a quick, painless death.
The executioner was a priest. A tall, gauntly man who could have served as death himself. His attempt at a beard was thin and spotty, his skin more wrinkled and worn than old leather. The robe he wore was all black, save for a large white cross on his back. He walked back and forth before those to be executed, asking them all to repent their sins. The first spat on the priest, but the priest only bowed and gestured for a guard to put something in the man's ears.
The second man cried, giving a large speech about how his family had only wanted the world to be safe, and that the were all now doomed to die. The priest bowed, and again the nearest guard inserted something into the prisoners ears. The remaining eight proceeded in much the same way. Some cried, some struggled against their captors, and some accepted their fate quietly - but all had a tiny device inserted into their ears.
The narrator described them as small, one way radios. It seemed odd, at first, but the no one struggled against the devices. By the time the priest was done with them, it appeared that many had accepted their fate. It was around here that I realized I was holding my breath. Everyone in the room was, listening close for what the narrator would say next. I like to imagine that the world was holding their breath, everyone leaning in close to their public delivery device.
But the narrator said no more. All were silent with anticipation. The priest gave a bow to the audience and reached into his robe, pulling out what appeared to be a tiny microphone. His eyes burrowed into the camera and his crusty old face stretched in an all too pleasant smile. Nodding, he reached one hand up over his mouth, and spoke the words.
The video ended there. We did not need to see the corpses of those executed to know that they were dead. It had been all the world talked about. We were told that the priest had sent the men to hell with but a simple phrase. I do not know what those words were. I only know that he spoke, as I watched his cheeks move up and down in a way that only speech would allow. They were the words that brought death; they were the words that brought magic.
------------------------
Thanks for reading! For more (some goods ones!), clicky here. Have a nice day, ladies and gentlemen.
It was maintained as a secret for a long time. The public was distracted with the war, believing it was a simple threat on their freedoms. This was not true. World War 3 was fought over the secrets of magic - some countries believed that if they could not have it, then no one should. They failed to eliminate the research that had been done. They failed to stop the natural progression of humanity.
As with all things man deals with, the secret was not to be kept for long. With the reappearance of public executions after the war, a controlled test was to be done. It was intended to be for a small audience of potential investors, but as with all things in the age of magic, news traveled fast.
Men were killed with but a string of words. No, it was a trick of the eye - a magic trick! They were injected with something. There were no tubes. Then they were injected with a slower reacting chemical before the show! No chemical would have allowed them to walk onto stage, looking so healthy. Then a microscopic robot was used to kill them! The arguments reigned on and on until eventually, the sponsors of the execution stepped forward to make an annoucement. It was the day the world changed. It was the day the new calendar began. It was the day magic was born.
The video was shown world-wide with a narrator walking everyone through the events. He gave a brief history of magic - the same I have provided before my story - and then went into great detail about the events at the execution. Ten men had been brought forth for crimes against humanity. All of them were war criminals. All of them had been voted for death by the general public. All of them were to be provided a quick, painless death.
The executioner was a priest. A tall, gauntly man who could have served as death himself. His attempt at a beard was thin and spotty, his skin more wrinkled and worn than old leather. The robe he wore was all black, save for a large white cross on his back. He walked back and forth before those to be executed, asking them all to repent their sins. The first spat on the priest, but the priest only bowed and gestured for a guard to put something in the man's ears.
The second man cried, giving a large speech about how his family had only wanted the world to be safe, and that the were all now doomed to die. The priest bowed, and again the nearest guard inserted something into the prisoners ears. The remaining eight proceeded in much the same way. Some cried, some struggled against their captors, and some accepted their fate quietly - but all had a tiny device inserted into their ears.
The narrator described them as small, one way radios. It seemed odd, at first, but the no one struggled against the devices. By the time the priest was done with them, it appeared that many had accepted their fate. It was around here that I realized I was holding my breath. Everyone in the room was, listening close for what the narrator would say next. I like to imagine that the world was holding their breath, everyone leaning in close to their public delivery device.
But the narrator said no more. All were silent with anticipation. The priest gave a bow to the audience and reached into his robe, pulling out what appeared to be a tiny microphone. His eyes burrowed into the camera and his crusty old face stretched in an all too pleasant smile. Nodding, he reached one hand up over his mouth, and spoke the words.
The video ended there. We did not need to see the corpses of those executed to know that they were dead. It had been all the world talked about. We were told that the priest had sent the men to hell with but a simple phrase. I do not know what those words were. I only know that he spoke, as I watched his cheeks move up and down in a way that only speech would allow. They were the words that brought death; they were the words that brought magic.
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Thanks for reading! For more (some goods ones!), clicky here. Have a nice day, ladies and gentlemen.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
005 - Writing Prompt - "Write about a near-death experience."
The tightrope was my defining moment. I have always been afraid. Of spiders, of lizards, of diseases far and wide, of god, of death, of the unknown. The worst of all my fears was my fear of heights. Anything higher than the steps to my front door were too high. Roller-coasters made me want to vomit just by looking at them. Whenever we drove over bridges, I would have to close my eyes - the alternative of looking down was too frightening.
It ruled my life for a long time. I remember being so stricken with fear inside an elevator that I was reduced to a crying sob in the corner. In an elevator, where I couldn't even see the heights that I was traveling. For awhile, it only grew worse. The very idea of height would set me off into panic attacks. I would be flat on the ground, my whole body as low as it could be, and looking at the sky would cause my chest to pump as if my heart were a shotgun freshly fired. My vision would become so blurry with tears and fear that I would no longer be able to see the sky - but I would be frozen, unable to recover for hours at a time.
I once asked my father why we fear. What use was it, beyond the ruler of my life? He told me that fear was a friend, an ally that guided us through troubled times. Some fear was necessary because it protected us from dangers beyond our knowledge. Fear was a warning to use caution where none may kill us.
It helped. I don't know why, or how, but it drove me to conquer my fears. Spiders became squished, lizards repelled, diseases were no longer a threat until they plagued me. God and death were out of reach, out of control, as was the unknown. They were not worth fearing until the time came that I was directly faced with them. I was almost free.
I had managed to ride a roller-coaster at a carnival. It had been fantastic, thrilling, blood pumping fun. I don't know what happened with my brain. I was a fool, I know. It was as if being free of my other fears had propelled me to a point where I forgot my fathers advice. I was fearless. Night set in and the carnival was packing up. I noticed that they had yet to take down their tightrope. I was alone. I crawled to the top, prepared to conquer my fear of heights once and for all. I wish there had been someone with me. I wish someone had noticed that there was no net below
The first few steps were incredible. The surge of elation through my veins felt stronger than any panic attack. It made me want to jump around and celebrate, to shout to the heavens in defiance of any challenge they might throw at me. I was the king of fear; the king of height!
My pace across the tightrope sped up until I was practically running. I slipped. Or tripped. I fell. I was right-side up, and then I was suddenly cruising towards the ground at an incredible speed. I remember the fear seeping back to me in those last moments. It felt like a friend rushing to my aid in my last moments. He tried to catch me, but it was too late. I felt the snap of bone, the rush of pain. I kept waiting for fear to say, "I told you so," but it never came. There was just silence and pain.
I should have died. Someone found me, rushed me to the hospital, and they managed to save my life. I am paralyzed from the waist down, now, but it doesn't bother me. Life is almost better. I keep fear close at hand, but it no longer rules my life. It simply reminds me, everyday, that some fears are there for a reason.
--------------------------
I should probably note that this is a fictitious story. So not real. Sorry if it felt real, or if the prompt was expecting it to be real.
For more on this prompt, click click! Thanks for reading, and have a nice day.
It ruled my life for a long time. I remember being so stricken with fear inside an elevator that I was reduced to a crying sob in the corner. In an elevator, where I couldn't even see the heights that I was traveling. For awhile, it only grew worse. The very idea of height would set me off into panic attacks. I would be flat on the ground, my whole body as low as it could be, and looking at the sky would cause my chest to pump as if my heart were a shotgun freshly fired. My vision would become so blurry with tears and fear that I would no longer be able to see the sky - but I would be frozen, unable to recover for hours at a time.
I once asked my father why we fear. What use was it, beyond the ruler of my life? He told me that fear was a friend, an ally that guided us through troubled times. Some fear was necessary because it protected us from dangers beyond our knowledge. Fear was a warning to use caution where none may kill us.
It helped. I don't know why, or how, but it drove me to conquer my fears. Spiders became squished, lizards repelled, diseases were no longer a threat until they plagued me. God and death were out of reach, out of control, as was the unknown. They were not worth fearing until the time came that I was directly faced with them. I was almost free.
I had managed to ride a roller-coaster at a carnival. It had been fantastic, thrilling, blood pumping fun. I don't know what happened with my brain. I was a fool, I know. It was as if being free of my other fears had propelled me to a point where I forgot my fathers advice. I was fearless. Night set in and the carnival was packing up. I noticed that they had yet to take down their tightrope. I was alone. I crawled to the top, prepared to conquer my fear of heights once and for all. I wish there had been someone with me. I wish someone had noticed that there was no net below
The first few steps were incredible. The surge of elation through my veins felt stronger than any panic attack. It made me want to jump around and celebrate, to shout to the heavens in defiance of any challenge they might throw at me. I was the king of fear; the king of height!
My pace across the tightrope sped up until I was practically running. I slipped. Or tripped. I fell. I was right-side up, and then I was suddenly cruising towards the ground at an incredible speed. I remember the fear seeping back to me in those last moments. It felt like a friend rushing to my aid in my last moments. He tried to catch me, but it was too late. I felt the snap of bone, the rush of pain. I kept waiting for fear to say, "I told you so," but it never came. There was just silence and pain.
I should have died. Someone found me, rushed me to the hospital, and they managed to save my life. I am paralyzed from the waist down, now, but it doesn't bother me. Life is almost better. I keep fear close at hand, but it no longer rules my life. It simply reminds me, everyday, that some fears are there for a reason.
--------------------------
I should probably note that this is a fictitious story. So not real. Sorry if it felt real, or if the prompt was expecting it to be real.
For more on this prompt, click click! Thanks for reading, and have a nice day.
004 - "In under 100 words, set up and deliver a cliffhanger."
My muscles felt aflame, my bones aching as if being torn from their sockets. The hike had sapped much of my energy long before I had tumbled over the edge. I was beyond amazed that I had even managed to grab a protruding tree root before disappearing into the abyss. But holding on was an impossibility. I looked up through blurry, tear filled eyes to see my uncle towering above me. All I could manage was a single, croaked phrase. "Help me." The corner of his lips curled upwards, and my stomach was suddenly filled with a twisted, sinking sensation.
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Shorter than the 200 word goal for each day, but I figure I make up for it with some of the longer than 200 word posts! Thanks for reading, and for similar posts to read, click here! Have a nice day.
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Shorter than the 200 word goal for each day, but I figure I make up for it with some of the longer than 200 word posts! Thanks for reading, and for similar posts to read, click here! Have a nice day.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
003 - Writing Prompt - "Tell me about the quirks and/or history of your character's weapon of choice."
Bernard pulled back on the string of the bow, squinted his eyes, and released the arrow. His breath erupted from his mouth in a rush and his shoulders instantly slumped. He knew he had missed the target. The tree was unmoving, a stationary object in a forest of stationary objects. His eight years of training should have been enough to make a connection, but he knew he missed. He knew enough about missing to know that the arrow was going to land in the brush off to the side. Just like it had on the last shot; just like it would on the next shot.
"Again." A course voice commented from behind him. Bernard turned to complain, but the man shook his head. "Again."
"Why?" Bernard let the bow drop down to his side. "Daruk, this is useless. I can't hit a stationary target, how am I ever going to hit something moving?" The left side of his face twitched uncontrollably. "Something living."
"It isn't useless." Daruk was leaning back against a dead tree stump, his dagger carving a tree branch into the shape of a makeshift arrow. "You've been at this for a third of yer life. You'll pass, if you let yourself." He snorted. "You don't have much choice left, boy."
"But this-" Bernard's hands waved around erratically to indicate their surroundings, "-this whole profession isn't for me. I'm never going to be a master hunter." He let out a quiet sigh before tossing the bow to the ground. "I'm useless."
"We go through this everyday." The older man picked up the bow and tossed it back to the younger man. It smacked Bernard in the face, who struggled to catch it as it bounced off. "But not today. Today you shut yer air hole and hit the damn target."
"Why must it be a bow - why hunting? Why can't our village have a master booksmith, or bookmaster, or what not? I like books."
"What ye gonna do with books? Smash a rabbit's face in?" Daruk let out a rough laugh before shaking his head. "Ye failed all the other professions before ye started. Books are useless, so learn ye hunting."
"Books are not useless." Bernard felt his grip tighten on the bow, but he forced himself to take a breath - to be reasonable. "Books tell us how people lived all over the world, how to avoid the disasters of the past. They're filled with the most intelligent bits of man. If we all read more, we might not need hunters."
"Hah!" The older man spit at Bernard. "Can yer books teach ya how to shoot straight?"
Bernard felt his mouth open to comment, but the way his mentor was holding his carving knife made Bernard promptly shut it his air hole tight. Holding back any sign of breathing he picked up the bow and drew another arrow. His fingers and mind repeated through the process of knock, draw, aim. It was methodical, precise, and quickly followed by his mind beginning to wander. He knew he was going to miss. He always missed.
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"Again." A course voice commented from behind him. Bernard turned to complain, but the man shook his head. "Again."
"Why?" Bernard let the bow drop down to his side. "Daruk, this is useless. I can't hit a stationary target, how am I ever going to hit something moving?" The left side of his face twitched uncontrollably. "Something living."
"It isn't useless." Daruk was leaning back against a dead tree stump, his dagger carving a tree branch into the shape of a makeshift arrow. "You've been at this for a third of yer life. You'll pass, if you let yourself." He snorted. "You don't have much choice left, boy."
"But this-" Bernard's hands waved around erratically to indicate their surroundings, "-this whole profession isn't for me. I'm never going to be a master hunter." He let out a quiet sigh before tossing the bow to the ground. "I'm useless."
"We go through this everyday." The older man picked up the bow and tossed it back to the younger man. It smacked Bernard in the face, who struggled to catch it as it bounced off. "But not today. Today you shut yer air hole and hit the damn target."
"Why must it be a bow - why hunting? Why can't our village have a master booksmith, or bookmaster, or what not? I like books."
"What ye gonna do with books? Smash a rabbit's face in?" Daruk let out a rough laugh before shaking his head. "Ye failed all the other professions before ye started. Books are useless, so learn ye hunting."
"Books are not useless." Bernard felt his grip tighten on the bow, but he forced himself to take a breath - to be reasonable. "Books tell us how people lived all over the world, how to avoid the disasters of the past. They're filled with the most intelligent bits of man. If we all read more, we might not need hunters."
"Hah!" The older man spit at Bernard. "Can yer books teach ya how to shoot straight?"
Bernard felt his mouth open to comment, but the way his mentor was holding his carving knife made Bernard promptly shut it his air hole tight. Holding back any sign of breathing he picked up the bow and drew another arrow. His fingers and mind repeated through the process of knock, draw, aim. It was methodical, precise, and quickly followed by his mind beginning to wander. He knew he was going to miss. He always missed.
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Thanks for reading! For more on this prompt, check out this link. As always, have a nice day!
Monday, January 20, 2014
002 - Writing Prompt - "Write something to make me cry."
The first one died from an infected cut along her nose. We didn't have the money to bring her to the vet. The truth is, we never should have owned dogs. My family was struggling to get by with clothing for three children and food enough for five, yet we decided to raise three dogs. I'm sure it felt like a pre-requisite to living on a farm, but the amount of care given to the dogs was less than ideal.
I would have been mad at my family if I knew any better. I was just a kid in love with three dogs. They weren't rowdy, untrained, overbearing creatures to me; they were simply friends filled with too much love. I could have given them more care. I should have been a better friend.
So the Dalmatian - Bailey- who was always a bit snippy, bit the German Shepard -Tippy- on the nose. The cut was bad, but we didn't have the money. So we waited. For a week, it looked like it was getting better. I was hopeful. But another week passed and suddenly Tippy wasn't the rambunctious one anymore. The cut never seemed to change, but I remember the look in her eyes. If she were human, it would have been sadness. It would have been defeat.
I don't know when she died. One night she was there, hiding away in her doghouse as I brought her food. The next, as I returned from school, I was told that her body had been buried out back. I never saw the corpse. I never saw the grave. I never said goodbye.
The second to go was Bailey. She was old, I know, and her hair had never done much good at providing insulation against the bone snapping cold of Minnesota. She had been the reason Tippy died, so it was not much of a surprise when my family was angry at her. My dad seemed to be the only one that noticed that she was dying too. He worked 14 hours through the night, and yet he would come home and spend hours out in the frigid cold trying to warm and comfort her.
I don't know if she froze to death, or if she simply gave up after watching her lifelong companion die. I saw her corpse, days after she died, frozen in a curled up ball. She made no sound, but I imagined her high pitched whine calling out for me, "Stay with me. Keep me warm. Please, stay with me."
Losing two dogs in a week was hard enough, but I turned to my last dog for support. His name was Spot, for the large spot he had over one of his eyes. He was a mut, but large and never without desire to give you attention. Most of his life was spent chained to a tree, but he struggled constantly to pull himself free. Multiple chains were snapped, link by link as he yearned to spend more time with people. He managed to loosen collars, allowing himself to wiggle backwards until he was free.
He wasn't allowed inside, but he always found himself at our door, scratching and barking until someone would chain him up again. I don't know if he was lonely or if he just wanted to play, but I know that I never spent enough time with him until Bailey and Tippy had perished. Much like my father had spent time with Bailey, I found myself spending late nights out with Spot in the cold, just cuddled up in the snow. I had a friend to take care of. I had failed the others, but I was going to do better with Spot. I was going to spend all of my free time with him. I was going to take care of him and make sure he wouldn't die too.
Until he did, three days later. I woke with the sunrise, excited for a new wintery day to spend with my pal. I looked out of my second story window to see if I could see him. I could. It looked as if he had broken free from his collar again. He was laying in the snow about halfway to the door of the house. A tree was blocking most of my vision, so I ran downstairs to see what he was doing.
My father was already standing at the door, looking out at the snow. He wasn't crying, but the air around him held the soul-crushing pain of a funeral. I followed his gaze to a mixture of blood and vomit that trailed from Spot's doghouse to his body some fifteen feet away. Spot was laying in the snow, unmoving. I asked my dad what happened, but he shook his head, unsure. Spot was dead. I was only ten, but I knew he was dead. There was too much blood. Too much vomit. My friend had died, alone, struggling with his last bloody breath to reach my doorstep.
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001 - The Prompt, "I am a leaf on the wind, watch how I soar."
I am a leaf on the wind. My destination relies on the whim of those far greater than my dry, shriveling self. I float through the air without a care, because I fear what caring may bring me. The world is vast, a pot of boiling storms and hungry beasts; I know not where I go, but fear where I may be.
I was once apart of something great. I was vibrant and green, with many brothers and sisters to provide me with comfort against the horizon. I had a body, a soul that provided me with nourishment when the rays of hope would fade away. It was more than a family - it was more than the universe itself.
The storm struck down my home, ripping me from all I knew. I drifted away for many days, until the cold became to much to handle. I began to curl up to hide away the cold, to reach my body towards the food from the heavens. Each day goes by and I am left more famished than the last. I long for my home, but I have no control. I have but one choice; to embrace the path set before me. I am a leaf on the wind, watch how I soar.
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I was once apart of something great. I was vibrant and green, with many brothers and sisters to provide me with comfort against the horizon. I had a body, a soul that provided me with nourishment when the rays of hope would fade away. It was more than a family - it was more than the universe itself.
The storm struck down my home, ripping me from all I knew. I drifted away for many days, until the cold became to much to handle. I began to curl up to hide away the cold, to reach my body towards the food from the heavens. Each day goes by and I am left more famished than the last. I long for my home, but I have no control. I have but one choice; to embrace the path set before me. I am a leaf on the wind, watch how I soar.
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Sunday, January 19, 2014
A New Year
A couple years ago, I attempted to write for 365 days in a row. For the first time, I did it by writing a journal entry everyday. It worked. I felt great. It allowed me to vent, even if the venting was not appropriate. Nobody read it. Yet, I think it made me a better writer. It made me feel like a better person.
When the year ended, I decided to try it with story writing. Some people actually read that one. It didn't turn out as well. I made it a little over a month and a half before crashing and burning. I could blame it on school; I could blame it on poor writing. In the end, it was simply falling short of my goals.
So, here I am. It has been a few years, but I'm frustrated that I do not write as much as I should. I found myself falling into that never ending abyss that is known at reddit, and there I found a section for writing prompts. For the New Year, the subreddit /r/WritingPrompts has issued the challenge of writing 200 words a day. Simple, yeah? Well, the first problem is that I am a bit behind. The second problem is getting myself to keep with it.
So, uh, HERE WE GO.
When the year ended, I decided to try it with story writing. Some people actually read that one. It didn't turn out as well. I made it a little over a month and a half before crashing and burning. I could blame it on school; I could blame it on poor writing. In the end, it was simply falling short of my goals.
So, here I am. It has been a few years, but I'm frustrated that I do not write as much as I should. I found myself falling into that never ending abyss that is known at reddit, and there I found a section for writing prompts. For the New Year, the subreddit /r/WritingPrompts has issued the challenge of writing 200 words a day. Simple, yeah? Well, the first problem is that I am a bit behind. The second problem is getting myself to keep with it.
So, uh, HERE WE GO.
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