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!
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
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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Thanks for reading! For more on this prompt, check out this link. As always, have a nice day!
"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!
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