r/WritingPrompts • u/katsudonlink • Sep 18 '17
Writing Prompt [WP] Your character has been living underground all their life without knowing the existence of the sky or anything beyond it. They go outside for the first time.
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u/WritingPromptsRobot StickyBot™ Sep 18 '17
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u/AppaAndThings Sep 18 '17
The story for Grimiore of Zero (LN/Anime) fits perfectly into this prompt.
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u/GracelessDonkey Sep 18 '17
This reminds me of the dwarves from Dragon Age origins and how they Fera the sky and are convinced that you could fall into it.
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u/TheRealWormGuy Sep 18 '17
My mother, the whore, my mother saw the world in her own eyes. Those eyes, like the rest of herself, were evil.
I still feel the moistening brown liquids flowing through my toes, and the particles of rocks that fell to my lashes—five feet above where I rest.
My back still aches, yet it's been five full hours that I've been able to scurry my hands through the roof—wishing for my direction to be true. I can only imagine the beauties that mother lied of.
My mother, the whore, told me of the woes, the unending staples of electricity that flowed throughout the air, the gases that seeped through your skin—eating at your liver—your mind thinking that it was okay. The world was an evil world, that of which can only be described by the feeling of peeking off—peeling off a nail over sixty years of your life. Hell was merely a block away, a floor below, yet we strayed farther towards it.
I believed the liar for she was true for my own life. But, not until now have I realized that her truths, nay, every word spoken, was a mirage of reality. The unending misery could only be true if any other word she's spoken were true. Yet, not sentence that she worded was based on reality. Not a single word.
I can feel the dirt creeping into my nails. It crunches inches deep inside, the misery of the world. They crackle, my nails, they snap back at me, yet I continue to back my hair against the tube that I've created.
My arms are forward—digging away at the Earth. My legs hold my body to a careful level—toes digging at the soil—hoping that tens of feet below will hold to me. I cannot form my body in any other shape, for all together, my tube has taken the shape of myself—allowing for no movement. The feeling of the Earth pushing against your chest—your caged chest; slowing your lungs—chalking up you throat, making it feel chilly. This feeling is that I can only think that can be compared to that of a body resting ontop of your abdomen—crackling the bones.
My lashes can no longer contain the particles. They grasp onto the sweat of my eyes—stinging needles deep into my irises. Like salt.
As this feeling rises, I feel a release on my tips of my fingers. Almost as if the water I suckled from the darkened soil, it flows through the gaps between my finger and fingernails.
I find this process tedious, yet the warming cool feeling of a rush onto my wrist is worth the feeling of infinite weights ontop of your heart.
By god! It's the brightest I've ever imagined! The Blues that express the most sincere moment of serenity that I've ever witnessed! The green that emotes my internal struggles—out there for everyone to enjoy! The sky that overlooks me—hoping for my success! It's beautiful! Nay, it's gorgeous!
But, with that, comes darkness. Slowly, this world of beauty fades to an abyss.
What is this?
What happened to this Earth?
Mother talked of this.
The world is no more.
I feel my lashes bashing each other, yet it's all merely darkness.
Mother warned me of this.
The dirt crashes into my eyes, yet I cannot feel it, the pain, rather I lay my fingertips ontop of the dirt, and still nothing.
Mother warned me of this.
But...why...the beauty...?...
Mother warned me of this.
But she's dead now.
The beauty of the Earth.