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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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."

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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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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.