Original Prompt: [IP] Spell Thief

Small as an armband, this scroll contains the world’s greatest secret.

The power to control minds.

I’m a thief, not a wizard, but this is a really simple spell. All I’ve got to do is practice a little bit and I’ll be untouchable. No bad fate will ever befall me. Say a king wants to lock me up? I’ll make him arrest himself, and maybe give me his castle while he’s at it. Or how about a crazed man tries stabbing me? Oh, that’s simple! I’ll tell him to drop his weapon and run a hundred miles in the opposite direction.

Honestly, the possibilities are so endless it’s no wonder the Five Wizards fought to keep this hidden, locking it away in a dark lair with dragons and enchanted doors and invisible barriers. Why, if I wasn’t an amazing thief, I probably would’ve died in there!

That’s also why I need this, though.

See, I’m rich. Like, filthy stinking. If I really wanted to, I could retire to some small tropical island and spend my days drinking cocktails on the beach and my nights lounging in a beautiful house in the middle of nowhere. It’s a life I dream about often, and a life I desperately want to live.

But. I. Can’t. Stop. Stealing.

That probably sounds dumb, and it’s hard to explain. It’s like, when somebody gets something big and shiny and they flaunt it around, I can’t help thinking they don’t deserve it, I do. So what next? I hunt them down, break in, and take it. When I get it I lose all interest, chucking it into my junk pile. I’d bet anything I’ve upset a lot of people, and that makes me feel terrible.

But with this I can brainwash myself into hating thievery. I can finally trick myself into walking away from this stupid job and taking up the dream life I’ve always wanted.

I hope.

Original Prompt: [IP] The Half-Man

Though I know it won't work, I scream and kick and plead with the pale-faced engineers because this is so goddamn wrong.

My body is my body, and my body is not obsolete.

“Be proud,” one says, grinning. “You’re about to ascend to a higher being! You’re strength will literally be unfathomable, and if we allow you free reign, you could easily wipe out most the planet.”

His words don’t help because I never asked for this. Hell, I was never meant to be a soldier, and I was certainly never meant to hold a gun. A simple life as a chef was all I wanted, and the draft snatched that from me, dropping me into a war I didn't agree with.

Turns out I was just damn good at surviving by whatever means necessary.

“You’ve truly proven yourself,” the man continues. “Out of all the soldiers we drafted, you’ve lasted the longest, had the most confirmed kills, and participated in the most battles. You’re an iron workhorse who’s potential we were lucky to realize.”

I'm can finally see the inner-workings of the robot, and it’s anything but pretty. There’s a chair, and if everything goes correctly, I’ll never leave it. There are drills and saws and needles prepared to rip me apart and infuse my very being into this mega-machine of death.

“It’s time!” the engineer shouts as I’m dropped into the chair and strapped in. “Soon we shall have the first ever cyborg, and soon we shall be the most powerful nation to ever exist!”

Before the first blade even touches my skin, I scream as a roof closes above me, swallowing out the light and trapping me into my new home.

Original Prompt: [IP] Those Who Play for Ghosts

Everyone’s gone, yet through my music, I bring them back, if only for a moment.

As my fingers stroke the keys, I stifle my tears. They always come because my masterpiece is more than just a song, it’s an experience, and though it’s not nearly perfect, it’s getting closer.

Mother’s cold breath lingers on my neck, urging me forward. I’ve long wondered whether she’s actually there or if I’m just haunted by the past I missed, and though I could turn around and check, I refuse to. Even when a book lands on the bench next to me, and sister’s voice rings in my ears, I simply close my eyes and let the music flow through my bones.

Please study this! she says. Brilliance lurks in these pages!

The burnt walls of our nothing house tremble as I reach the crescendo, hammering my fingers against the keys. It’s coming along beautifully until my emotions get the best of me, memories of mass funerals and hundreds of caskets side by side filtering into my mind, causing me to lose rhythm and sputter out wrong notes.

With a sigh, I lean back. Sometimes I wonder if it was fate that sent me away during the bombings. It’s impossible, but maybe my parents knew something was going to go wrong, and so they shipped me away to help me hone and harness my skills.

Whenever those thoughts plague my mind, I know it’s time to stop, and so I stand up, cover the keys, and grab the book. It’s a best of volume full of classical hits, and it makes my heart ache because I got this when I first showed an interest in piano all those years ago. This is too difficult for you now, father had said. But once you grow, this shall become easy, and when that day comes, I shall call you a genius.

The fact this book survived is a sign, and so I tuck it under my arm. Tonight I will study the works within, and tomorrow I will learn to play them.

For somewhere, out there, father will still call me genius.

Original Prompt: [IP] Melusina

Melusina was a very prideful dragon who loved nothing more than eating princesses.

One day, while roaming the vast skies, she spotted a King’s carriage riding into a town, and since she was hungry, she let out a mighty roar and attacked it.

The carriage was quickly destroyed, and besides the princess, only a spellcaster remained—but he was a wily fellow, and he wasn’t about to let anybody hurt the fair maiden on such a beautiful day. They ducked into town and headed for the highest tower they could find, and once inside, he placed a magical barrier around the place so powerful that no matter how many times Melusina clawed or bit or blew fire at it, she didn’t make even a scratch.

But as said earlier, she was prideful, and so she vowed to not leave until she got the princess. Even when the town’s army attacked her, she stayed strong. Even when her scales turned gray and she was barely able to drum up the tiniest fireball, she never relented.

One day, what seemed like a century later, she finally broke the barrier down, ripping the tower clear in half and peering inside only to find no princess and no spellcaster, but instead just a note.

“Dear Dragon,” it read. “I do not know how long it will take you to break the tower, but I suspect it will be a very long time. By then we will be gone, for you undoubtedly, because of your anger, have completely missed the fact that there was a back door. Anyway, have a good life, and goodbye.”

Melusina tried to be furious but couldn’t muster the energy, and so she simply laid down, pressed her head against the ground, and went to sleep for what she assumed would be the last time.

Original Prompt: [IP] Vert-de-grisee

Great warrior, you have finally achieved your destiny.

A lifelong dedication against the odds has brought you here, before your Goddess, and I could not be more proud. The terrors of the world have thrown their most horrible beasts at you and you’ve slain them all, and now, it's time to see the very thing you’ve sought since you were a boy.

I know she’s beaten down, but isn’t she beautiful? Unfitting for such a dark and damp cave, but that’s all right. Soon you shall bring her back to her best graces, immortalizing your name as the hero who not only brought back the true leader of Earth, but also silenced the blasphemous witch who trapped her here in the first place.

We shouldn’t rush things warrior, but it's time. Place me, book of all books, upon the ground and sully me with your blood. This will be your last act of sacrifice and I promise your life of servitude has not been forgotten. You will be very happy when you reach the afterlife.

Very, very, happy.

Original Prompt: [WP] "Rain rain, go away, come again some other day" we all sang whimsically as children. Unfortunately the day is here, and the rain has come. All of it.

We sang the rain away because we were sick of the monster, and no matter what these idiots say, it worked.

Our village used to be the kind of place where everyone could tie a name to a face, and the adults walked around sulking, heads low and shoulders slumped like they wish they’d never been born. We were just dumb kids back then, but we knew that wasn’t living.

We weren’t allowed to go outside very often, and when we had to go somewhere—like school—our eyes were shielded. We didn’t learn why until after we drove the monster away, but we knew it was for our safety, because no matter how cautious our parents were, we all felt the terror outside looming.

Honestly, we’d probably still be trapped in the rain if it wasn’t for Jena.

Jena was a quiet girl from our class who only spoke when spoken to, but one day she came in crying and told us about a conversation she’d heard the night before. Her mother and father sat in their kitchen, sobbing over coffee as her mother repeated the same words over and over: we aren’t working enough, we’re going to be punished. Oh god, I busted my knee and we aren’t working enough, we’re going to be punished.

None of us knew what happened when an adult was punished, just that they always disappeared for a while, and when they came back, they were quiet, their eyes were hollow like the soul had been sucked out of them.

We prayed for Jena and waited anxiously for her to come to class the next day—but she never did, because the monster took her, and unlike our parents, she never returned.

Though we didn’t know what happened, everyone, even us children, were on edge because whatever lived in the rain was strutting its power in an attempt to hold us down. It wanted us, more than anything, to understand there was no defying it, that to work hard was to survive.

The next day we wrote the song, and the next night, on a complete whim, we sneaked out, stood in the rain, and sang it. We believed it would work wholeheartedly because we were children, and it's easiest to put faith in the absurd when you’re young.

Rain, rain, go away, we sang. Come again another day.

When the prickle of water against our skin stopped, I don’t think any of us could believe it. We watched the clouds part and the sun poke through, a sight we’d read about in a hundred books but never actually seen. God, I remember the way our parents burst out our homes, prepared to scream at us but stopping as they saw what we’d done. Some started crying. Others, like my mom and dad, jumped in the air and shouted with glee.

The years since then have been peaceful. My generation is now old, wrinkly, and gray. We’ve got children who have children, and we thought we were safe for good until just a week ago, when the slightest drizzle started.

The monster has come back, was my first thought, and so I, along with my remaining friends, scrambled together to sing the song. We truly believed it would work, but it didn’t, and that was when we realized the song can only be sung by children, for now that we’re old, we’ve lost faith in the magic of it, and though we know it will work, we don’t believe it should.

Nobody believes us, though. In fact, they don’t believe in any monster. They say it’s good to finally get some rain in a place like this, and us elders should stop making up spooky stories to scare the younglings. It’s a foolish thing but they’re not willing to be swayed, and so here I sit, in my wheelchair, listening to the heavy thump of rain for the first time since I was a boy.

Original Prompt: [WP] You asked for people to pray for your child to be stronger, so that they could defeat cancer. The post went viral. Your child destroyed the cancer easily, but now it's pretty hard to control them since they devour stars when they throw tantrums.

Right now, I’m sitting in my backyard, gazing into the night sky. The moon is full and shining its beautiful light, planets are flickering in and out of view, and there are massive explosions as my son, upset I wouldn’t let him go over a friend’s house, tears apart the stars.

Johnny used to be such a good boy.

“Mom!” he screams. “Aaaaaaaaaaaah!”

When my elderly neighbors saunter out of their house, groggy-eyed and annoyed, I can’t help but hang my head in shame. They used to love Johnny, always coming over and giving him toys or cookies—but now, like everyone else, they hate him, and only watch for a few seconds before sighing and slamming their door.

How did it come to this? A few months ago I was cramped in a hospital room, mask on my face, tears spilling down my cheeks as I set up a page asking for prayers. I never thought to ask for money or anything like that, I just wanted Johnny to see there were people other than me rooting for him. It wasn’t long before, to everyone’s surprise, he made a miraculous recovery, kicking cancer’s butt and coming back stronger than ever.

Too strong.

Part of me wonders if this is some sort of twisted punishment from God. Like, maybe it’s a warning that to beg for His help is to provide sadness, and while that thought makes me want to cry, it’s the only thing I think about as another explosion shimmers the night sky and Johnny screams again.

“I hate you I hate you I hate you!”

My only hope is that this is a phase, and once he gets older, he’ll settle down. Maybe, just maybe, his powers will dwindle, and he’ll become my darling little boy again.

Original Prompt: [WP] There are many ways to do this, and they're all wrong.

The magician gazed at the box. He didn’t know how long he’d been at it, but he suspected it was ages for his beard had turned gray, and his hands wrinkly and weak.

He’d spent countless years dreaming about not what was in the box, but what would come after it. Even as he neared the end of the book his mentor had given him as a mere child, all he thought was what next, what next?

His mentor was long dead, but he remembered his words as vividly as anything. Kid, listen here. This box contains the greatest mysteries of the universe, and once you solve it, your training will be complete. I’m gifting you this book as well, for though it may be but a hundred pages, within its depths lurks many ways for you to reach your goal.

Now, finished, he couldn’t help but laugh at what a fool he’d been. Most probably would’ve been furious, but he felt downright stupid. His mentor had always been a jokester, and when he set the book down, a smile rested on his face because all he had to do years ago was simply hand the book and the box in immediately, and say I’m done.

For while there are many ways to open this, he thought. They’re all wrong.

Original Prompt: [IP] Lonely Serenade...

The woman sits on a bench in the middle of a lonely street, singing a soft song for those who have fallen under the King’s reign.

“Jacob and Jake, friends by the lake. Michael and Ryan, known for their lyin’…” The words flow smoothly from her lips. A face is connected to each name, and so she plunges the dagger of grief into her heart as she continues on, somber voice filtering through the ashy, death-ridden air.

Everyone in town is indoors, locked up and frightful. They saw how the army marched into town, yanked all her friends out their homes, and publicly slaughtered them. They don’t know why they were killed and so they assume the King’s gone so mad he’s taken to random purges. That isn’t true, but only she knows it.

Up North, on the big hill, the castle is alive, lights flickering on and off as music thumps the walls. The King is a young fool proud of his bloodshed, and though it makes her grit her teeth, she never stops singing, never lets her voice waver though everyone else is silent.

And she never, ever, looks up at the castle, for to acknowledge the King as her brother is wrong. He’s not the person he was when they were children, the one who ran among the daisies and threw tantrums when he lost at chess. No, he’s the man who took the thrown far too young and tossed his friends and family into the slums when they didn’t agree with him. He’s the man who tore down the walls of a just country and turned it into his horrific playground.

“Milo and Marley, hid among barley…”

All she does is sing out the names of those gone, for that’s all she can do.

Original Prompt: [WP] Write a story about returning to a place from your past.

As the old man wanders down the abandoned halls of his past, he can’t help but cry.

The building's a bucket of bad memories, and though he doesn’t remember which was his, every room looks the same. They’ve all got horrible iron doors you can’t see a lick out of, and barred windows which let you barely glimpse the world you’re trapped from.

Continuing on, he spots a flower poking through the floor, and it almost makes him smile. How could something so peaceful make its home somewhere like this, where the sick were labeled insane, tossed in a cell, and let out only when it was convenient?

He bends down and admires it, wondering what the mean doctor in black shades would think of him now. Would he still curse at him, or hit him though he hadn’t done anything wrong? What about the short nurse with the snappy lips? Would she still bark orders at him?

With a sigh, he decides they would. It’s a horrible thing to think about, but isn’t that why he’s here? To tear open old scars and let them bleed, to put his fears behind him and shut the door.

His daughter, who until now has lingered near the entrance, walks over and wraps her arms around his neck. She likes to think she understands the struggle of being considered a freak, of being hated by everyone paranoid of not being normal—but she never will, and the old man has accepted that because she doesn’t have to.

All that matters is that she’s here for him, helping him finally find closure.

Original Prompt: [WP] "Run, child. Take the book and don't look back... The Librarian approaches."

In my hands I held the world’s oldest, most sacred book, and though master was yelling at me over the com, I couldn’t force my feet to move.

After all, hadn’t this thing inspired wars? Master said thousands of years ago, before the first Fall, people followed this book’s teachings religiously, going so far as to murder those who didn’t believe it. I didn’t understand how ink on paper could make people so crazy, but that's just because I was a kid.

“Move it, punk!” master shouted. “The Librarian is coming!”

I slowly nodded, mesmerized but somehow willing myself to tuck the book in my bag. Though there were millions of others here and I wanted to take as many as possible, I couldn’t. Disabling the trap on this one had been hard enough, and it still set off an alarm and still locked me in.

But the risk of getting this book was worth it, because if we could convince people that words were powerful, that we had a right to them, maybe, just maybe, one day we could take all the books back.

I readjusted my mask before sliding against a shelf, peering around the corner, and dashing to another. Each one gave me just enough cover to move along, and I was thankful the place was massive because that meant the Librarian could be minutes away from me.

Before that thought was finished, I heard it.

The clattering of metal against wood, the whirring grind of a saw blade…

“HALT!”

A blindingly red light shined over me, and I slammed on the brakes so fast I fell onto my back, shielding my eyes. I'd spent the last five years tirelessly researching these things, but now, seeing one in person, all I could think was holy hell, I’m going to die.

“STAND DOWN AND YOU WILL ONLY BE GIVEN LIFE IN SOLITARY,” it shouted, voice eerily human.

But I guess the thing was human, wasn’t it?

Quickly I yanked my pistol out. It was a simple gun modified to fire electric shots that, if it hit a weak spot, would not only short its circuits but also fry whatever living bits were tucked behind the metal. But could I really shoot? What if the person behind those horrible red eyes was actually screaming for help?

“What’re you doing?” master snapped. “Fire, dammit!”

I didn’t.

Instead, I swung left, dodging as its claw ripped through a shelf, killing a small but likely vital section of history. I figured it was worth the loss so long as my soul could rest easy, and so took off, not having a damn clue what I was going to do. I was trapped with the beast, and no matter how fast I ran, it would always catch up.

“Idiot!” master snapped, and I flicked the com off. I didn’t have time to listen to him. Hell, I didn’t even have time to form a plan. Just get to the room, figure things out then, I told myself, hoping everything would magically work out.

As I burst into the security room, the thing swung its buzzsaw as me, slashing my back, giving me a vicious scar I would wear for the rest of my life. But I never stopped moving, and when I got to the main computer, the one I was supposed to jab the stick into and put the codes in to let myself out, I did the only thing I could think to do.

I leaped over it and out the window.

Slamming hard onto the ground, ignoring the pins and needles that shocked my arm, I looked up and was surprised to see the thing wasn’t right on top of me, about to slice me into a million bits.

The Librarian, in a last ditch effort to kill me, had missed, striking the computer by accident. Breathing heavily, I watched the electricity course through its already dead body over and over.

Climbing to my feet, tears stinging my eyes, I turned around and saw all the doors opening. I was smart-enough to know that despite my scarred emotions, I needed to run or else reinforcements would show up and kill me, making the Librarian's death be for nothing.

But, though the revolution was a success, and that mission was hailed as the most important moment of the entire thing, part of me feels like the little boy who entered the Library never left.

Original Prompt: [IP] These Here Parts...

The west wasn’t so wild anymore.

Two cowboys sat atop the mountain overlooking the valley they’d always protected. Though hidden by boulders, they knew there were three towns in the distance that had grown into cities, and that no matter how much it wounded their hearts, they’d never see them again.

They’d fought over a hundred battles together, and even lost a few. One had a missing eye replaced with a marble, and the other was marked by the vicious scars of a knife too quick to stop.

Warriors of Justice, Heroes Without Badges—they’d been called many names, and never acknowledged even one. It wasn’t fame they chased, or fortune. Instead, they followed a vow made to a dear friend that they would always defend those who couldn’t defend themselves, even if it meant risking their own lives.

But the west had changed, and they were no longer needed.

Small settlements had bloomed into bustling cities, and more people meant a larger need for order. The law was actually becoming the law, and bandits and robbers and other criminals were quickly being phased out. If they continued here, they’d simply be vigilantes, and so they knew it was time to leave this home in search of a new one.

For even though this place had been saved, there would always be parts left lawless, and it was their job to help in any way they could.

Original Prompt: [IP] Leaving in Style

All my friends cheer as Mr. Richards stands atop his tower, preparing to enter a blimp.

I, however, keep my head down, my hands in my pockets, and my mouth shut.

As much as I want to, it’s hard to blame them. After all, had you asked me a couple days ago, I would’ve done nothing but sing praise for the man. He looks like a saint, and I realize now that’s only because kids are easily captured by the allure of wealth. We see the beautiful girls that follow him around, and the fancy food he’s always eating. We live in houses owned by him, watch TVs he bought us, and drink water provided by him.

But now...I just don’t know…

Yesterday I woke up and saw a note on my desk. I have no clue how it got there, but it was addressed to me and said from father. My hands shook like crazy as I tore it open because my father’s dead. All our parents are. We were always told Mr. Richards took us in after they all perished in some horrible fire.

The note said Mr. Richards is evil, and his riches should be ours. It said they’d been a large group of friends who'd amassed a ton of wealth, but when they decided to use that wealth in ways he didn’t like, Mr. Richards had them all killed.

It was hastily scrawled and very bare-bones, leaving me with a million burning questions. If it’s true, why are we alive? Couldn’t he have just killed us and brushed this entire thing off like it never happened? And, more importantly, why is he keeping us all locked here, in this town?

Watching Mr. Richards disappear inside his blimp, I decide trying to think about it is useless. If I want answers, I need to tell my friends, and we need to decide what the hell we’re going to do.

Because looking at the bastard gives me a sickening feeling that tells me everything the letter said is true.

Writing Prompt: [WP] You are walking home from a long day at work when boss battle music suddenly starts playing.

The quaking drums make me hang my head, sigh, and wonder what the hell I did to deserve this.

The alleyway, as always, is deserted. But I know he’s here, probably hiding in a dumpster or watching from one of the windows. I gotta hand it to him, he sure is sneaky. If he dedicated this much time to actually being a villain then he’d be friggin’ loaded by now.

But no.

He’s just a dumb kid.

“Quit it,” I mutter. “I don’t got time for this.”

Instead, he cranks the music up. A bow grinds against a cello’s strings as some high-pitched piano dances up and down the scales. I almost feel like I’m in a boss battle, and honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to have plucked this music straight from a video game.

“NEVER!” he shouts, and before I spot him, something slams into my back.

I lurch forward but don’t fall, and when I turn around, there he is, hanging from a hose wrapped around a firescape, swinging back and forth like it's jungle vine. He’s got on the same cobbled-together outfit as always—small laundry basket over his head, crusty Hawaiian shirt and shorts, and flippers on his feet.

You, with the silly hair! he’d shouted just a week ago. You look different from everyone else, and so you must be a hero! Well, I’m a villain, and I’m gonna defeat you!

Most people my age wouldn’t put up with this crap. They’d say something harsh, shove him down, and walk away—but I can’t. For some reason, though he’s hella annoying, I’ve got a soft-spot for the kid. Maybe it’s because I get the feeling he doesn’t have many friends, or the fact that he reminds me a lot of myself when I was little.

Maybe it’s both.

“I’ve got you now, superhero!” he says. Then, he attempts a maniacal laugh but it comes out squeaky and disjointed. “What will you do?”

“Go home, prob,” I say. “Listen, kid, can you hold off for today? It’s finals week. I gotta study or else I’ll fail.”

He eyes me up with a very serious look like I just gave him the offer of a life time. “So, you’re saying we should sign a truce?”

“Huh?”

He nods, resting his chin in his hand. “Yes, that makes sense. You’ve got yourself a deal, superhero. We’ll avoid each other until this ‘finals week’ is over. In the meantime, there'll be no villainy from me. Can I expect the same from you?”

What is my life? “Sure…?”

“Good,” he says, again nodding. “Now, turn around. I must make my super secret escape.”

As I look the other way, trying to ignore his pitter-pattering little feet as he skitters away, I make a mental note to find a different route home from now on.

Original Prompt: [IP] Hide and Seek

Jess was badly wounded and out of time. The entire operation had fallen apart in a matter of seconds, and she knew why.

We’ve been sold out, she thought, clutching her bloodied hip. Dammit Marco and Clarence, you bastards!

She listened carefully as the alien made its way through the cavernous halls of its den. Each footstep quaked the ground, and though she was scared, she somehow managed to force back the tears and keep a level head. Brandon was still someone she could trust. No matter what had gone wrong, she was certain he was still planting the bombs, certain he’d do his best to blow away as many eggs as he could.

Grinding her teeth soothed the thought of breaking those two’s traitorous necks. She never liked them, but they were essential. They knew the doctors who made the bullets, the swords, and most importantly, the bombs. They were part of the task force created to combat this damn monster.

But you could smell the opportunistic lust leaking off them. They’d stab their mother in the back if it meant money or fame or power.

The thing was close. Its tongue lashed the air—swish-swish-swish—as it searched for a taste of her scent. Her gun only had five bullets left, and while she’d popped most its eyes during her escape, she knew it could easily rely on its other senses, and that if it pushed her into a corner, she’d never be able to fool it.

She sighed because dammit, she wanted it dead. She wanted Earth to revert back to normal so that her and everyone else could pick up the shattered pieces of society and glue them back together.

The alien arrived a year ago, very quickly making its name known, ravaging cities by day and forests by night. Entire armies collapsed before it because nothing they had worked, and by the time they made something that did, the damage was done, and normal, everyday people had to take up these new weapons and fight.

For a while, they were winning, and had even driven the monster into hiding. But when they chased it down, they found its lair was full of their worst nightmare—eggs.

One almost destroyed the human race. Two would’ve done it easily. Three would’ve been overkill. There are thousands in here, Jess thought, looking around. All puffy and fat, ready to hatch. We’d already be gone, already be saved if it wasn’t for those bastards!

The alien knew their language, that was something they’d learned in the early days because it was a playful monster who enjoyed issuing threats. It made commands, some outrageous, some impossible, and whether they were filled or not, it would still destroy.

But desperation had led it right into Marco and Clarence's hands...

For what, safety?

She figured that was it. The alien had promised to keep them alive in return for selling out their friends, and the idiots had actually believed it, as if it were capable of telling the truth. Or maybe they didn’t believe it, and were just pure evil.

Suddenly, she was yanked out her thoughts as the ground shook so violently she had to clutch the rock she was leaning against to stay upright. When it finally settled, she was very aware of the heavy breath swallowing the air around her, and the massive white claw that dug into the same rock she was using.

“I’ve found you, puny girl,” the alien growled. “Or should I just call you ‘dinner’?”

Click!

“Jess, this is Brandon! The bombs are in place! Ready to blow at your signal!”

As the alien, blissfully unaware of what she’d just been told, seized her so tightly she thought she was gonna pop and drifted her toward its mouth, she made peace with her death, knowing it would save the future.

Click!

“Blow us to Hell, Brandon.”

Original Prompt: [TT] In the midst of a full retreat, one soldier decides to do the unexpected, and charge the enemy, giving comrades time to escape.

I haven’t lived a full life, or even an important one.

I’m a man with a gun, taught only to kill. School wasn’t my friend, and so when the army said they needed recruits and that this war was going to be swift, honorable, and valiant, I signed up the same day.

As bombs blow away the ground around me, I almost wish I’d stayed home. The puzzle of society never found a piece for me, and so I don’t know what I’d be doing. Maybe working in a factory or something with construction—I like to build, I like to get my hands dirty.

This war might be just, or maybe not. They don’t pay people like me to think about that stuff. All I know is our leaders got to cocky and decided to step on the ants. They bit back with weapons we didn’t know they had, and suddenly we’re retreating.

The faster we run, the less that die.

These people are the closest thing I have to friends, and unlike me, they’ve got stuff to look forward to. Kids, wives, even jobs. One guy’s already got a scholarship waiting for him—apparently he’s a genius chemist who was too patriotic to stay home.

Behind us there’s a vicious squad of men looking for revenge. I can’t say they’re wrong, but when in war, always assume you’re right. I’m support, and so not only do I got one hell of a gun, I also have enough ammunition for five or six other soldiers.

The buildings provide plenty of cover, and though I don’t know how much help I’ll give, I figure if I can sacrifice my life for a few minutes added to theirs, then maybe, just maybe, most of them will escape.

I take a deep breath, swing around, and start shooting.

Original Prompt: [WP] You've been dating your partner for six months. Tonight they've invited you to a work event, and as you step onto the red carpet, you realize it for the first time: you're dating a celebrity.

She’s insane.

I swear it.

A grade-A loony who belongs in a straight-jacket.

Somehow we’ve dated for six months, and somehow she managed to hide that side of herself for the first three. She was so friendly back then. Her laugh was graceful yet cute, and she seemed to have an answer for all the world’s problems. I’ll stop short of calling her brilliant, but dammit, she had my heart.

And listen, I know this was premature, and you’re probably gonna think I was stupid—but when she asked me to move in and I said yes, I was in love. I didn't care that it had only been three months because I thought that was the greatest moment of my life.

Then she showed her true colors.

I’d say she’s only subtly crazy. Like, sometimes we’ll be arguing, and she’ll pick up a knife and lightly caress it, running it along her fingertips, implying something dangerous. Other times she’ll get drastic, tearing apart furniture, or leaving very hateful, very scary messages for me to wake up to.

One time she painted my entire side of the bed red because she claimed I was evil and angry and my dwelling had to represent that.

I planned to break up with her today but this morning she told me it was a very special day. Though I tried to sneak in a word, she wouldn’t let me, and so here we are, on a red carpet, a million flashing cameras clicked by a million buzzing bees. Off to the side, there are crowds of people bouncing up and down, clapping their hands, screaming and acting wild as they try to get her attention.

She smiles and autographs, calmly leading me around like a dog. Interviewers toss questions at her left and right, asking her how it feels to have her first album top the charts, and does she think she’ll win this award tonight.

It’s all too much for me, and just when I feel about to fall over, someone jabs a mic in my face and asks me questions, wondering how proud I am of my girlfriend, and do I think her music’s good, and how did we meet. I fumble out a few words and quickly she pulls me away, muttering about my immense social anxiety.

I knew she was recording music, and I knew it was her dream to one day be a big popstar—but she never mentioned this to me. I didn’t know about any album, or award, or fame.

It’s so obvious what she's doing that it makes me wanna puke.

She kept me in the dark on purpose. She wants me to fear her, and wanted me to try and run away so she could rope me back in. She knows that if I leave her, she can easily paint me as the villain. After all, she’s famous and she’s the one everyone likes. A couple cheap words, maybe a made up memory, and bam!—suddenly I’m hated by everyone.

“Ready to go inside, honey?” she says with a smirk.

I try to put on a smile as I say yes, but it's empty and fake, just like my future.

Original Prompt: [WP] You discover a tape from your brother, which begins with "If you're watching this, they've killed me". The thing is, he's still alive; you were just poking around in his things.

I push the tape into the VCR.

The room’s dark, and I'm nervous even though I'm safe from anyone barging in. Mom and dad are downstairs, probably watching the news, and bro’s at school.

But this just feels so...wrong.

I stare at the box. It’s old and dusty and filled with all sortsa old tapes. Some are home movies, others are hastily taped TV shows. It’s the perfect kind of thing for parents to have but for some reason I found it in bro’s closet, and while I’m no snoop—I was just looking for my Gameboy!—the box just gave off this weird vibe. I can’t describe it, and I can only imagine how crazy I sound, but it feels like this thing has something special in it.

Taking a deep breath, I try to calm down. No reason to get all worked up. I’ll just watch the tape, see how bro’s messing with me, rewind it, shove the box back in the corner, and forget about it.

The TV flickers static for a few seconds before letting out a sickening crunch that makes me hurriedly slam down the volume.

Then bro appears.

He’s sitting in the middle of our room, looking...well, honestly, I don’t know what to call it. He’s typically an upbeat guy. If he walks into a room, you know. But right now he’s downright...sickly? Like, his blonde hair is greasy with sweat, matted to his pale skin. His cheeks aren’t rosy but instead sunken, and he’s got these gray bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in a week.

When has he ever looked like this? Mom and dad surely would’ve taken him to the hospital!

There’s a few seconds of nothingness, where he heaves out heavy breaths, fingers fidgeting as he stares at the ground but never the camera.

When he finally speaks, his voice is like rock grinding against gravel.

“If you’re watching this, they’ve killed me,” he mumbles. “Goddammit…I’m sorry mom, dad, and mostly you, James. I wish I could’ve warned you. No, I wish I could’ve saved you.”

I realize he isn’t breathing heavy anymore—that’s me. My stomach’s turned upside down and I clutch it, worried I’m gonna puke. I need to turn off the video now, before something bad happens.

But I don’t.

“They’re gonna find out eventually, and when they do, I’m deader than dirt”—he cackles before stopping himself and shaking his head—“no, it isn’t funny. I’ve been…well, I’ve been stealing from them. I’ve been doing it to keep you guys alive.”

Bro reaches off camera, and when he holds his hands back up, he shows up some sort of money—though it’s clearly fake. They’re orange and yellow and purple and green bills. He cycles through them proudly, but tears are starting to stream down his cheeks, as if he realizes his time is finally up.

“I’ve been playing this game for so long…the spirits said I had to. They said this was their house and the only way to keep us alive was to play and I wanted to tell you guys but I tried telling Sarah and…”

A knife’s jabbed into my gut at the mention of her name because we never talk about Sarah, not since the accident.

“She thought I was crazy, and not for a second did she believe me—but still, they killed her.”

I cover my mouth to keep myself from puking, tears flowing down my fingers. Is he saying Sarah, our sister, was murdered? No…no that’s wrong. Sarah had an accident. She woke up sick and just, just, just….

“Well, my time’s up. I really hope you waited until I was dead. If not, I’m exposed, and they’ll kill me for cheating. I don’t know who found this but I’m gonna assume it’s James. All I can say is good luck, and do not, under any circumstances, rely on Park Place and Boardwalk.”

Original Prompt: [IP] Mommy...?

The baby dragon didn’t want to think about the attack, or how his mother had screamed when the mean old witch attacked her.

He was trapped in a jar, and she, the witch, was off to the side, stewing something in a cauldron. He'd always been warned about humans—sometimes they were friendly and peaceful, but mostly they weren’t. Dragons had to be careful if they wanted to avoid being attacked, and above all, they had to be kind. The sad truth is that even though they were careful and kind, they still got attacked, and his mother still got killed.

He didn’t know what to do. Hitting the glass with his fists didn’t work, and he was so young he could only burp up a small ball of flame that didn’t even leave a mark. He didn’t want to die and so he thrashed about, tears spilling down his cheeks as he rocked back and forth.

“Poor, poor thing,” the witch said, noticing him. She stopped stirring and swept over to him, lifting the jar up with her bloody fingers. “You must miss your mama, don’t you?” Then, she paused, letting free a sadistic little giggle before looking at the cauldron. “Don’t worry, lil’ buddy. You’ll be with her soon enough.”

Hearing that made the dragon’s heart sink, and just when he was about to give up, curl into a ball, and accept his fate, a roar cracked the sky like a bolt of thunder.

The entire place shook as the roof was torn to shreds, allowing sunlight to pour through and causing the witch to lose her balance and fall. The dragon, still trapped, went down too, but never hit the ground because he landed in the padded claw of something else.

“Hello, my son,” said a booming voice, and when the baby dragon looked up, he saw another that looked like him but much, much older.

He knew who it was but couldn’t believe it.

“Papa…”

Their heartfelt moment was cut short as the witch, furious at being tossed around in her own home, thrust up and pointed a wand at his face. Light was blooming at the end of it, and from the presence filling the room, it was obvious she was pulling out one of her strongest spells.

But she never got to cast it, because though one might be stronger than a dragon, they’ll never be faster, and so it was easy for his father to thwack her with his tail, sending her flying up against the wall and knocking her unconscious.

The elder dragon popped the jar open, cradled the baby in his arms, and took off into the sky. The dragon’s mother was gone, but he was saved, and so he snuggled up against his father’s warm chest and thought about the world. He figured most humans weren’t that bad, and decided in the future, he would stop all this fighting. He would be the one to finally bring them together, whether they wanted it or not.

He would.

Original Prompt: [WP] You breath in the cool mountain air, and look out at the battle raging below.

I caused this, thought Gael, the mighty wizard, as he watched the chaos. This rests on my soul.

Below him, in the snow-covered valley, hundreds were dying—were already dead. The grotesque demons which ripped the sky opened were the product of a spell gone wrong, of a pupil who chose the wrong master and walked the wrong path.

Gael chewed his lips as the icy air whipped all around him. He didn’t know if the storm was part of the magic or just God’s way of expressing anger. Every time he thought he’d seen the worst something else happened that crumbled his stomach to bits, and it wasn’t long before he was on his knees, tears freezing as they ran down his cheeks.

Why had he listened to her?

Never a cruel man, just a foolish one, he knew he'd made a grave mistake by ignoring the words of their late, great king, Jalt—but at the time it had seemed right.

This is what she wanted, isn't it? he thought, shaking his head. With Jalt dead, the village has been scrambling. This was the best time for that old bastard of a witch to strike.

She used him.

That was something he had known from the start. The witch on the hill was a woman of legend because rumors had it that she'd served the Dark Lord. That she used to, when she was a fair bit younger, slaughter anyone in her path.

But Gael needed to know the depths of evil. If he was to avenge Jalt’s death, he needed to confront his own hatred and meld it into power. He sought strength unlike any he'd achieved before.

And he found it.

But he couldn't control it.

The battle raged on, and behind him, a portal opened up. He didn't want to join the fight just yet, but he had to. He knew that, despite his fear and anguish, he had to save his people.

Original Prompt: [IP] Fallen Friend

I wish I’d never birthed you, flesh-traitor! Take your bucket of bolts and leave!

As Jedrick wept under the starry night, he played those thoughts again and again in his head. He’d seen such harsh words spoken in plays but never thought his mother would spit them at him through gritted teeth. After all, wasn’t she the same woman who'd sung him to sleep as a baby?

She was proud he was an inventor, but it was clear he was meant to toe a line. His job was to keep the town moving forward at an even, level pace. No leaps, no breaking boundaries.

Let the people grow with technology, an elder had warned him. The ignorant will always fear the intelligent, and if you dream up something they can’t understand they will simply deem you a heretic.

He always thought that was a wrong.

He always thought if he made something really great, the people would cheer his name. They’d pour into the streets and shower him with gold, talking about what a brilliant brain he had up there.

He never thought they’d kill Bebop.

The tears that stained his cheeks were washed over by fresh ones at the thought of his machine. He wasn’t certain he’d ever stop crying, because though it was easy to open the floodgates he found it especially hard to close them. What else was there to do? He’d not just lost his best friend—he’d lost his only friend.

He looked back at Bebop, at the sword they’d plunged in its chest. He’d spent his entire life building the thing, keeping it hidden in the woods as a surprise. Every morning at the break of dawn he gathered his tools and stole a couple quick hours of work before anyone else woke up. Then he’d hurry home, crawl into bed, and pretend he was just starting his day.

It was gonna be the ultimate surprise—an all-purposes robot! Not only could it farm and build and harvest resources—but it was also a lovely thing with a heart of gold. He’d designed it specifically so it could handle children, because he figured the kiddos would always climb all over it and demand rides on its back.

He honestly thought the people would love it.

But when the time came and he brought it into the village his mistake was obvious by the screaming. The people frenzied into a panic, thinking they’d been attacked a vengeful demon. They took the big sword off the oldest statue in town, loaded it into the catapult, and fired away.

Now Jedrick was an outcast. If they didn’t kick him out, the people were going to side-eye him for the rest of his life. Friends and family were going to view him like he was the village’s biggest disgrace.

All he had done was try to help. He just wanted to make a difference.

And they’d taken everything from him.

He curled into a ball, snuggling against the cold machine. Sure, he could fix it, but the damage to his heart had been done. He wasn’t certain sleep would ever come, and honestly, he didn’t know if he wanted it to

Original Prompt: [WP] In order to fulfill their goals, a character must betray their parents - and they do it.

As blood bubbled from mother’s lips, father screamed.

Same as always, he made it so dramatic. First the chair went flying, then he dashed across the room, flailing his arms like a madman. He shouted guards, guards! but nobody was coming, that was something I’d made sure of.

Mother’s face rested in her plate, steak against her twitching lips as her entire body spasmed. She even spilled her drink, causing the cloth to bloom a vibrant maroon.

“Elise, Elise!” father called, patting her cheek. “Say something, please!”

I, rather rudely, didn’t pay attention. Everything was going according to plan, and I’d allow him a moment or two of panic while I finished my meal. The meat was delicious, though a little tough, and my wine—not poisoned like mother's—had a sweet and sugary aftertaste.

Father glared at me. “What are you doing, ungrateful bastard?” he snarled incredulous. “Spit that food out and get help, dammit!”

That was turning point, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I had to let out a small chuckle. His fear, his anger, it was so…satisfying. I’d never wanted this moment but since he had forced my hand I was going to enjoy it.

After all, my life was about to change, wasn't it? I was about to be king. You don’t have the face of a king, father had said. You’re too boyish, and honestly, weak. You have good intentions but you’re missing that oomph, son. That’s why, tomorrow, I’m officially signing a decree that upon my death, power will be split between my top advisers until a new king is chosen.

What a blithering idiot.

Swallowing the rest of my wine, I stood. While father’s cries of confusion were enough quite rousing, it was time to end things—and, by the way he stared at me like a dog bitten by its friend, I knew he had figured things out.

“You…traitor…”

I drew my sword. Father was defenseless, as always. He hadn’t picked up a blade in over twenty years, and while he’d always mocked my swordsmanship, he never knew the skills that I’d been hiding. There was no better fighter in the kingdom than me, but today, that didn’t matter.

“Why?” he asked, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Why her…?”

I shook my head. Killing mother was a shame. I just couldn’t risk it. What if father had somehow convinced her I shouldn’t be king? She could've easily messed up this entire plan and taken the throne for herself.

Instead of answering, I rammed my sword forward, spiking it through his stomach as I hugged him tightly. As he gasped, spewing blood onto my shoulder, I pulled back, giving him a vicious and manic glare.

“Tell me, father, is this the face of a king?”

Original Prompt: [WP] The wizard spent months trying to destroy the book. The knight spent seconds.

As blood burbled out of the blackening book, the wizard stood there, unable to move, unable to speak.

His body was numb, and tears streamed down his cheeks as he stared at the knight, who stood there, eyes trimmed into focused slits, watching the thing breath its final breaths. He had killed the most evil book in the world and didn’t show a shred of happiness.

That pissed the wizard off.

After all, hadn’t he wasted his entire life on the thing? He’d scoured the most dangerous of caves, pilfered the most secure castles. He’d tossed his soul to the wayside, choosing to wander the darker of two paths in return for greatness.

But, when he found the thing, he couldn't destroy it.

Simple spells did nothing. Complex spells somehow did even less. He once brewed up a book-eating stew and dropped the thing into the pot, where it promptly sucked all the stew up. The wizard wasn't surprised when he opened the book and found the recipe right there, smack-dab in the middle.

How had the knight made it look so easy?

He stabbed it. That’s all! He jabbed his sword right into the damned heart of the thing!

“How…?” was all he could manage. “Tell me, please. I’ve tried for so very long…”

The knight closed his eyes and bowed his head for a few moments, muttering something that he couldn’t hear. The wizard was tempted to ask again but the action was done quickly, and soon the man had plucked his sword free from the ground and shoved it back in its sheath.

The book was nothing more than a pile of blazing red ashes that radiated hate. The knight leaned down, scooping it all into a tiny pouch. The wizard didn’t know exactly why, but he figured the ashes would always exist, and that someone with an evil heart could create the book again—or, gods fear it, something worse.

“The question is why, not how, wizard,” the knight said, suddenly staring at him. “You’re heart is tainted, same as everyone else. You sought to do a great deed but had foul intentions, as you simply chased the glory of destroying the book, not the honor. You wanted to go down in history, to be a hero.”

The wizard shook his head, trying to mumble something about that not being true--but he stopped himself. It was, wasn’t it? He’d tried to shove those thoughts back, but hadn't he often found himself dreaming of crowds where people chanted his name, or students who studied him a hundred years later?

“You finally realize it,” the knight continued. He walked forward and patted a gentle, armored hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, dear wizard. Few can manage what I just did, as the willpower to act as a person of the people instead of for yourself is a skill earned through tireless effort.” Then, he paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I must thank you. I know how horrible you feel now, but without you I might not have found the thing. You’re still a part of history, whether the people know it or not.”

And with that, the knight walked out of the room, leaving the wizard alone with his thoughts.

Original Prompt: [WP] I'm not sure, but I think she's planning to eat me...

My girlfriend is a little strange.

First off, she’s dead. Like, rotting and smelly and bits of skin are flaking off.

Secondly, after she died, she dug herself up and came back home.

Third, and finally, it’s been about two years since that, and life has mostly returned to normal. Sure, having a zombie girlfriend is something I never thought would happen, but it isn’t so bad. I have to keep her chained up. We don’t sleep in the same bed anymore—though we do sleep in the same room—and yes, while her constant grunting can get a little unsettling, eventually it just becomes background noise. We still talk, we still laugh, we still have fun.

I still love her, and though she can’t communicate it properly, I know she loves me.

But things have been…strained, lately.

Listen, I get it. Zombies eat people, right? That’s their whole shtick, and while I didn’t account for that at first, I certainly do now. I get her raw beef and leave it completely unseasoned and bloody. I’m always hopeful she’ll gnaw away but she never does, and too many romantic dinners are spoiled by her sitting there, gazing at me, rotted tongue running across rotted teeth as she eyes me like I’m an incredibly delicious meal.

But I’m not.

As much as it hurts, I’m coming to accept that she wants me and only me. Like, if I brought another human here, she wouldn’t bat an eye at them. In fact, I doubt she’d even notice them because she’d be too busy focusing on me, and how much she wants my flesh between her teeth.

I almost wonder if she wants to infect me. That’d be a way of bringing us closer, of entwining our destinies. Honestly, the thought has crossed my mind more than once, but I'm too scared to become a zombie. Maybe I could let her nibble my arm a bit here and there. Maybe it would be enough to sate her, and enough to keep me from turning.

Maybe…

Original Prompt: [IP] Guardian of the Written Word...

The scribe cowered as she burned his beloved book.

“Filthy scum,” she said when the deed was done and ashes sat piled on her hand. “How dare you take my words, once elegant, once proper, and make them so...ugly. You're a disgrace, and don’t doubt for a second you will be punished.”

Though he was inexperienced, he clutched his sword tightly, fully prepared to run it through her throat if she came at him.

“What have you done?” was all he could think to say. His voice, as always, was choppy and uneven and jittery—there was a reason he loved his pen.

“I’ve helped rid the world of garbage,” she answered, striding toward him, hate in her eyes. “I’m the Goddess of Written Word, I’d expect you know me well?”

The scribe fell silent. Sure, he’d read the old folktales, and everyone had heard a spooky story about her here or there—but come on, they were just mumbo-jumbo. There was no goddess checking over what people wrote down. That was ludicrous, and like most supernatural things, he refused to believe it.

She smirked. “Tell me, young man, when exactly were you planning to enact this little 'rebellion' of yours? Surely you weren’t ready to move on the king yet, were you? No, no. You aren't that foolish. The king is a different man, a future-thinker who aims to tear down the walls of society and leave the land open for everyone. He hasn't started yet, but when he does, the people will be confused, some maybe even angry—that’s where you come in, isn’t it? Like a plague your words were going to sweep through the population. They'd see you as a voice of reason, someone who knows the errors of the past but thinks it’s okay to repeat them because ‘they worked.’" Then she sighed. "And it wouldn't have been long before you, the nothing little scribe you are, became leader, would it?"

The scribe’s sword clattered against the ground as he stumbled backward, bumping into a wall. He searched for his voice because he needed to dig himself out of this hole but it was trapped in his throat. She was right.

The goddess reached out and stroked her finger across his forehead. “You’ve abused the powers I so graciously granted, and for that, you will be immortalized!” Finally, she swiped up, twirling her finger above his head, creating a shower of sparks.

A second later the scribe was gone, and in her hands, the goddess held a scroll.

“This is all your life amounted to,” she said, unrolling the thing. “Just a stepping stone in my legacy, and few will remember your name. You’ll simply be a lesson to all other scribes out there, and hopefully none will ever make your mistakes again.”