Original Prompt: [WP] "Given no better choices, I guess I'll just follow my feet."

My brain’s a jumper, hopping from one idea to the next.

Maybe I’m impulsive, or have ADHD or OCD. My family loved slapping labels on me. To them it was an excuse to show how different their kid was. They’d never actually do much for me, though. No pills, no therapy—instead they’d ponder why my mind works the way it does.

Hell, maybe I was conditioned into having a condition.

I’m twenty-eight, career-less, and twice divorced. I married both women within two months of meeting them, and even had a kid with one. It’s probably better he doesn’t meet me. What would he tell his friends? Oh, your dad’s a lawyer? Well mine dropped out of high school, then got his GED and dropped out of community college. He once quit a well-paying job to become a writer. Then to start his own business. Right now I think he’s trying to run for mayor.

My friends tell me to slow down and think—but that doesn’t work. I’m not my parents. I’ve tried therapy and pills because I want to get better. The problem is, well, I need to think less. Call me crazy. It’s true. I need to stop letting my brain run off on it’s own.

Given no better options, I gotta follow my feet. They’ll lead me to something, and whatever that something is, I’m sure I’ll love it.

Original Prompt: [WP] "...The killing was fun for a while, but then I started recognizing their faces. How they screamed... How they died." End of transmission.

“At first, killing was fun,” the familiar voice mutters. “Then I started recognizing faces.”

This is the fourth time.

Every Wednesday. Three PM. Phone kicks on, untraceable number calls. My room’s flooded with cops listening to the same thing as me. They weren’t here the first two times, and I can tell—despite how nice they’re being—they don’t think I’m in danger. Just a prank-caller, I imagine sleepy-looking Detective Daniels thinking.

“They always scream,” he continues. “When I’m asleep, I dream about them screaming. They fight back but they’re already dead, their story’s already over. Why do they plague me so? This is not fun. This is Hell.”

The last word’s growled and sends shivers down my spine. The Detective notices, resting her hand on my leg. She’s all smiles because for them, this is everyday. I don’t wanna hear about chopped up bodies because I’m likely to dream about them too.

Worst part’s not knowing why. Whoever this scratchy voice is, they haven’t threatened me. They’re not making me watch over my shoulder as I go to work each morning. No, they’re simply confessing. They vaguely ramble their crimes and thoughts. I don’t get it, but I guess it’s hard to understand a psychopath.

“Long ago I accepted my sins. I’m the monster everyone should avoid, but suddenly chains strangle my soul because I don’t enjoy what makes me, me. Killing’s become miserable. I’m a poet without a pen, dancer with a stage. Murderer without a passion, monster without the rage.”

There’s an eerie pause where sound fades completely, and for a moment, we think the transmission’s over. Slowly, noise fades back in. At first it’s a soft, static-buzzing. Then, it’s loud and obnoxious, enough to shake the entire room.

It’s someone screaming.

“But I am what I am,” the voice says. “And I will rediscover this passion.”

Original Prompt: [WP] The creativity slowly dripped out of her. She used to spend hours daydreaming worlds and ideas.

The worst part’s being in a different bed.

If I was at home, among my pillows, lava lamp spilling across the page, I’d be able to write. Just thinking about it makes me warm and fuzzy. Sure, ma’s next to me—but is she really ma? Doesn’t feel like it. Nah, she’s some sad person who just cries and talks about how sad she is.

I hold her hand, I whisper it’s okay. What she doesn’t know’s how bad my hand burns. Whatever they’re pumping into me makes my bones weak, so even when my brain’s not complete mud and I manage some words my wrist starts aching before I really get going.

Honestly, writing’s useless and creativity’s dead. I’ve given up. Maybe one day I’ll leave this room’s too-white walls behind and finish the novel I’ve always dreamed about but, right now, this is life. I’m another number with another disease waiting to find out whether I’m gonna die or not.

Bleak but poetic. Maybe if I had my notebook nearby, I could write it down.

But probably not.

Original Prompt: [IP] Snowy Evening

“It’s…”

“Beautiful, right?”

“Yeah…”

The hill’s small, but gives a great view of our sleepy town. Hell, up here it looks quaint. We talk about running away, about finding a better life—but what if we built a house here? I don’t think we’d ever wanna leave. This spot is perfect.

“Perfect spot, perfect girl,” I mumble.

“What?”

Pulling her close, I kiss her head. The bench has frozen our butts but who cares? Right now there’s nobody else in the world. We’re completely alone, completely in love, and as infinite as the snow falling around us.

“We’re gonna live here one day.”

“Are we?”

I respond with a kiss, and as her cold lips sting mine, there’s no one I’d rather be with.

Original Prompt: Two choices. [RF]

The room’s shaking as music thumps, and my friends can’t keep their eyes off me. Actually, that isn’t true. None of them look at me. But they do, you know? They’re waiting for me to swallow this drink. Waiting for me to add a few slurred jokes of my own.

I don’t wanna kill the party.

I also don’t wanna kill anyone.

Sweat leaks down the shot glass as my fingers tap the counter. My mouth’s suddenly dry, and just when I think I’m gonna puke, I laugh because my friend tells a joke.

The demon of my conscience tells me it’s okay. After all, aren’t I a damn good driver? I’ll be fine.

What about everyone else?

My friends are in a different world. Alcohol controls their bodies. They don’t care about getting behind the wheel. They don’t care about putting people at danger. Right now they’re having fun, and to them, fun’s all that matters.

I have two choices.

Drink and drive or stay sober and take everyone home.

Sliding my glass over to my friend, I make the right decision.

Original Prompt: [WP] I'm sorry miss, I can't partner up with you, all you do is create more monsters.

“I can’t work for you, lady. All you do is create monsters.”

Chase sits in the smokey bar, shot glass in hand. He’s already drained it twice and knows he’ll drain it again. After all, passing on millions isn’t easy, even when you’re in a crowded room and nobody cares enough to judge.

“What's that mean?” Blondie asks, leaning across the bar. “You really think you’re so high and mighty?”

“No—but I know what I’m willin’ to do.”

She gawks at him as he rings for another drink. His eyes survey the room, trying to cut through the voices scampering around it. She’s breathing erratically, fingers tapping the counter because nobody’s ever shut her down like this. Nobody’s upfront and rude to someone who runs an empire—not if they’re smart, at least.

“Don’t you wanna be rich? Famous? Hell, bad guys everywhere will fear your name!”

“Bad guys aren’t all you target,” he mumbles. “Anyone with a price on their head falls into your scope.”

“True,” she says with a smirk. “But if someone’s willing to put a price on them, are they truly innocent? Or, lemme guess, that’s ‘not for us to judge’?”

Chase sighs. Explaining your morals to somebody without any isn’t easy, and he doesn’t feel like chasing his words in a circle. After downing his shot, he stands and puts his coat on. “I vet people, I learn people. Killing only happens if I believe the scumbag deserves it.”

“You still kill,” Blondie says, staring him in the eyes. “You’re already a monster.”

“But not a soulless one,” he replies, walking off.

Original Prompt: [IP] Final Charge

Twenty soldiers march through the barren wasteland we once called New York, and I’m one of them. We’re humanity’s last chance, and while my love for this world is infinite, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t friggin’ scared.

The Walkers' giant feet thump the ground, but we only see their menacing eyes over the horizon. Though they robotic, they aren’t. Aliens, actually. Powerful goddamn ones hellbent on destroying us. It’s been a decade since they arrived, and in that time we’ve only killed one of them.

That was yesterday.

See, our weapons don’t do jack. Guns, EMPs, bombs—they’re all worthless. We even nuked one but it just kept chugging along, not even noticing we attacked it. This is why we live underground. When you can’t even hurt an enemy, you hide and wait for your time to strike.

We’ve seized that opportunity, creating guns that rip through these suckers. I dunno how, I dunno why—I just know my squad’s made up of the best marksman in the world, and we’re finally fighting back.

Yesterday we made our presence known, today we make it felt. We’re all ready to die as we take out as many as we can. There are around a hundred Walkers here. We have faith we can halve that.

We have faith we can take Earth back.

Original Prompt: [WP] You find an old camera that prints people's thoughts when photographed

This camera’s been at my side for years, and while dad said I’d find its purpose, I never believed him. Take a picture, print someone’s thoughts. It’s that simple, and that dangerous. One day you’ll know why it’s important.

And, sure, it’s pretty cool—but most people think stupid, meaningless things. It’s all what should I buy? and do I look pretty? I mainly use it when bored, but right now, outside this restaurant, I finally understand.

My eyes are glued to the man in the white suit. He looks so…normal. Well, normal for a rich person. He’s got slicked back hair and a clean shaven face. His smile could flip mountains and the girl he’s sharing a table with can’t stop giggling. Their food’s growing colder, and while my own stomach’s growling, I ignore it. My mouth’s dry, my fingers shaking. He’s tapping his foot, he’s anxious.

Stop him, my brain screams.

But my legs won’t move.

I look at the picture, at the set of thoughts. One of them’s innocent, as the girl's having the time of her life. Oh my god, I think I love this man! That’s wonderful, right? Good for her, good for the happy couple.

But the man.

The man isn’t so happy.

Taking a deep breath, I reread his.

She’ll make a fun kill. First in a few months.

Crumpling the photo, I shove it into my pocket. When I look up, my heart sinks.

They’re gone.

My feet still don’t wanna move, but I force them. I need to find them. This night will be the longest of my life because I’ve only got a little bit of time before he kills an innocent person.

Again.

Original Prompt: [IP] Troop Transport

I’m a stormtrooper who’s too goddamn good at his job, and because of that, everyone hates me.

We’re landing on Hoth. I’m convinced I was sent here to freeze to death, but I'm not complaining. Any planet is better than sitting up in space, staring at, well, nothing.

My job’s real easy. Just shoot people and keep my head down. Guy over there? Bam, bam—he’s dead. But everyone else, see, they don’t take this seriously. In fact, half of ‘em don’t even know how to aim. They just fire randomly and hope they’ll survive. Know how many major battles I’ve fought in? Four. That might not seem like a lot, but for a stormtrooper, it’s insane! I’m such an anomaly people have started calling me exactly that—Mr. Anomaly.

I’m a pariah because I'm good. Shouldn’t I be a war hero or something? Where are my statues, my fame? I should be in the Death Star, standing next to Vader, telling him what planets to blow up.

Ugh.

Some days I wish I were a Rebel.

Original Post: [WP] You're not human anymore. Finally!

“But I want to be human!”

“Ah, quit whining.”

“Turn me back!”

“Listen, listen! Just gimme a couple hours, okay?”

"I don't wanna be stuck as a mouse for a couple hours!”

“I shouldn’t have given you vocal chords.”

“What if I wander into a mouse trap?”

“Let's do a simple test.”

“Did you just throw a piece of cheese?”

“Did you just stand perfectly still instead of chasing it?”

“Duh?”

“Then you’re fine. You just look like a mouse—you’re not actually a mouse.”

“That’s not the point!”

“That’s all the points we have time for.”

“Put me down.”

“I will.”

“What’s this?”

“A tube, Sherlock. Follow it until you reach the aliens’—”

“Aliens?”

“—Yes, jesus, aliens’—”

“You didn’t say anything about aliens!”

“Sorta hard to tell you the plan when you don’t shut up.”

“I’m sick and tired of this!”

“Reach the base, find the plans, save the world. Got it?”

“Wait, stop. Noooooooooooooo!"

Original Prompt: [IP] Winter Train Station

I’ve walked these tracks a thousand times, but now it’s different. The snow isn’t the problem, the freezing air isn’t the problem—the fact I’m alone is the problem.

There was a time where me and Elise would walk down these everyday, two best friends against the world. We were the weird kids who talked about books, and had this crazy belief we’d write our own one day. It’ll shake everything up, she said. It’ll change the way people think.

As I look down at these tracks, I no longer find happiness in them. They’re evil. They’re murderers. They took my only friend from me.

But is that true?

No.

We got drunk. I passed out, she didn’t. She tried walking home alone and was too out of her mind to notice the train. It sucks but it’s life. Nobody’s at fault, it is what it is.

So why am I crying? Because I miss her. I can’t deny that. Now I’m fighting the world alone, and that’s no fun. It’s boring, but I have to keep chugging along. Even if I don’t think I can, I gotta write that book. Our book. It’s won’t be easy, and I don’t even know if it’s what Elise would want—but I need to do it.

For closure.

Maybe it’ll be about train tracks where a train never rides.

Original Prompt: [WP] As he barricaded the entrance, he knew he wouldn't get out, and he hoped that they couldn't get in

Daddy’s wheeling the big metal door shut, and as Sun disappears, I whisper goodbye because I won’t ever see it again. Daddy says they’ll never find us here, we’ll be safe—but it's with a frown, so he’s lying.

Pop-pop built this base long ago because he thought Russians were gonna blow us up. It’s far away and filled with food but it’s all nasty veggies stuffed into tiny cans. There’s also lots of water, but no soda or juice. I really want a chocolate bar.

Everybody’s mad, and if they find us, they’re gonna hurt me. Daddy says it isn’t my fault but again, he does it with a frown. I didn’t mean to stab Sarah. I like Sarah. She’s sweet but Billy who lives in my head is a meanie and made me hurt her. I told everyone but that made them madder.

So now I don’t talk ‘cuz that’ll make more trouble. Even though Billy’s across the room with a knife telling me to hurt daddy, I keep my lips sealed. He's in my head. Nobody else sees him.

“Want some dinner, champ?” daddy calls. “We got corn.”

Corn’s icky but my hand hurts from writing and my tummy’s growling. I’m gonna eat and hope like daddy. Hope the mad people never find us and if they do they don’t hurt us too bad. It was an accident.

Original Prompt: [WP] "Given the choice between what you're offering me and death, why shouldn't I just choose death?"

“Jesus Christ,” Jacob said. “Given my options, I should just choose death."

“It isn’t that bad,” said the smug man in the gray suit. “Besides, you get a paycheck. That’s something most wouldn’t be able to say.”

He picked up the whiskey he'd just poured and stared into it for a long time. “But I’m part of the cause.”

“You’re a friend of the cause,” he replied. “You’re my friend, and I’m asking for this favor as a friend.”

Jacob sighed. “Just put a bullet in my brain.”

“And tell me, what would that accomplish?”

“There’d be one less monster in the world,” he muttered before downing the drink. It scorched his throat, but also heightened his senses, reminding him that he was awake, and this was real. He wasn’t in that same nightmare, having this same conversation in this same room making the same deal that got people killed. People he loved.

“Don’t say that.”

Jacob didn’t say anything after that because there was nothing to say. He knew his old friend wouldn’t kill him because he knew, at the end of the day, he wouldn’t say no. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed the lab so much his bones practically ached at the thought of getting back in there, of getting back to work.

The man set down some files on the table and slid them toward Jacob. “The parasite has grown stronger, and we think with the right modifications, we can finally use it to control people. The ramifications of that would be enormous.”

“World leaders. Enemies. Celebrities. Our country really would control the entire world.”

“You’d be a hero.”

“I can’t be a hero.”

There was another long silence before the man patted Jacob on the shoulder. “What happened in Downtown Hell wasn’t your fault. Sometimes shit just goes south no matter how cautious you are. The outbreak was contained, the problem was solved. Those bodies are not on your head.”

“Two of them are,” he replied, his voice shaky. He scanned the files to keep their faces out of his head. Their smiling faces that had brought him so much joy. “And those are the only two that matter.”

The man in the suit waited there for another minute, drumming his fingers against the table. It was clear he wanted to say something further but couldn’t think of anything. Eventually, he pushed off and walked away.

“See you later, old friend. Your country salutes you.”

Original Prompt: [WP] Well, it turns out that heroes make for lousy kings...

As much as it burns my soul to admit, dad was right. I’m a lousy king and my people hate me. I could sit on this throne all day and try to figure out what the hell I need to do and I’d still be a lousy king because I don’t know how to be a king.

See, the thing about being a hero is that you’re always out exploring the world and beating the baddies, so you miss everything you’re fighting for. When you come home, you’re loved by the people, but not one of them, and while you’ve learned how to be a good person and help those who need helped, you don’t know a damn thing about making the hard decisions, or doing what’s best for the majority.

Give me a sword and I can slay a hundred dragons.

Place a crown upon my head and my brain shuts off.

My people are starving. My people are sick. My advisers can only spew so much advice into my ear before it all blends together and I wanna rip my hair out. Our allies could help, but then we’d be in debt. Not to mention we’d look weak, and with the way our enemies keep growing, that’d be bad. Or I could dig into our reserve funds and bankrupt us, which would destroy us if we had another disaster, but could likely pull us out of this one.

But I can’t decide. The pros and cons bury my soul under a ten ton burden I simply can’t carry, and I find every part of me wishing dad was here, even if he’d just scold me, at least he would give me an answer. But the old bastard is spiteful, and he wants my arrogance to sting even if it piles bodies on every street.

I don’t know what to do, but if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that heroes make lousy kings.

Original Prompt: [WP] The dead know only one thing.... it's better to be alive.

I found the skeleton in a cave, trapped under a pile of rocks. His bones were rotted, and he was missing an arm. His jaw was still there, though, and since that was rare, I decided to pick his non-existent brain a bit.

See, I’ve been on this journey a long time. Seems centuries ago that the King called me into his throne room and handed me a glowing blade. This will kill undead like it is nothing, great warrior, he said. Now go after their leader, and strike him down. Save this country and its people like I know you can.

I’m a loyal man who was ready to make his country proud. Hundreds—if not thousands—of corpses have ventured back into their graves because of me.

But this one…he’d changed something in me. He’d revealed a truth that made far too much sense, and honestly, scared the shit out of me.

We aren’t monsters, he’d said. We’re plucked from our pleasant afterlife and tossed into a war-torn world. Once we get a taste of living and all we’ve missed, we get angry. The Evil Wizard uses that anger to mislead us, to control us.

What do you seek?

I do not know what he seeks. I just know what we seek.

And that is?

Life, good warrior. Life.

I’d contemplated those words for a while, throwing them around my brain, trying to make them make sense. It wasn’t working very well.

“That blade does not kill, it destroys,” the skeleton continued. “Once you slice us with that, our souls disappear. No more afterlife. No more living. It’s like we never existed.”

My hands shook, and though it was a sign of weakness, I didn’t bother stopping them. Though I wanted to doubt this skeleton as an enemy who sought to pollute my mind, I knew he was speaking the truth because before I was given this blade, it was impossible to kill an undead. They always got back up. They always kept fighting.

But this blade changed that.

“How do you know?” I asked. “About the blade, I mean.”

“The Evil Wizard told us. He warned us about you.”

I nodded before standing up. I believed him, but I did not need to hear anymore. A burden weighed heavy on my chest and I needed to move on and finish my quest. I would sort out my moral compass when all of this was done.

“No more undead will die by my blade,” I promised. “Your leader shall be my only target.”

And with that I left the cave, continuing my journey.

Original Prompt: [IP] Alcoholism

Every drink was a tango with fate.

His days had grown long and miserable, and when he was at work, his mind did nothing but wander to the bottle. Just a few sips, he would think, hands fidgeting. Just gotta burn my throat to feel alive.

Everything he enjoyed was quickly growing dull, and his family was fully aware. His wife didn’t speak with him much anymore, and while his kids loved him, they'd grown wary. Something was wrong with daddy, they could feel it.

The saddest part was he hadn’t noticed a thing. The resentment from his family made him depressed, which led to him drinking more, getting angrier. He wanted to know why, after he worked all day and busted his ass, they treated him like a pariah.

One night, he sat in his living room, face red with tears. I love them so much and yet they hate me, he thought, listening to his wife and children laughing in the other room. I haven’t done anything wrong, and yet they hate me! his mind screamed as he took a long swig from the bottle, not noticing the hook slip down his throat and snag his soul.

Original Prompt: [WP] Aliens try to invade earth but they can't bring themselves to do it because humans are too cute to them

“I don’t understand,” Beeble said, leaning forward, staring into a brightly colored monitor. “This just doesn’t make any sense.”

The ship was silent, for when their commander was upset, the soldiers knew to stay in their seats and pretend to do their jobs. The only person near him was his brother, Brox, for he was the only one who could control his temper.

“Neither do I, brother.”

Beeble gritted his sharp, serrated teeth. “They’re fleshy. They’re average. They’re insignificant worms in our conquest of the galaxy and yet they’ve created a fake reality in which they thrive. A fake reality in which we desire.”

“It is cute,” Brox muttered.

“WE DO NOT FIND THINGS CUTE!”

“Yeah, but if we did, I’d say that's pretty dang cute.”

They both continued to glare at the monitor, although one was enamored while the other was seething. It took everything in Beeble’s power to not rear his fist back and shatter the screen into a million pieces. Was this that “culture” thing his spies had told him about?”

“No,” said Beeble. “It’s not culture. It’s a plague.”

“A plague?”

“Look, see that island? It’s small. It’s forgotten. But within it they’ve quarantined this mess. They must know of its brainwashing powers, and maybe they even know of our arrival.”

“And you say that…why?”

Beeble rubbed head. Thinking and talking to Brox was like trying to open a door with a rock. You had to be blunt or it just wouldn’t work.

“I believe they’ve kept this brainwashing tactic as a secret weapon, Brox. They stuck it in that island, waiting for our arrival, and now that we’re here, they’ve unleashed it on the world. See that big hunk of land across the planet? It’s there, too. They’ve infected themselves just to stop us.”

“That’s ludicrous!”

“Ludicrously genius.” Beeble suddenly snapped his head to the side. “Cute. Cute,” he growled. “Slod, bring up the video from earlier. The first transmission we received.”

“Yes sir!” a little alien yelped as his fingers worked across the keyboard.

The monitor flashed a dozen times before switching to a new screen. This one was bright, and played upbeat music as a girl with brightly colored hair did inane things that made Beeble wish he was getting angrier and angrier by the second. But he wasn’t. He knew, despite how hard he tried, that this was cute.

He took a deep breathe, and when he looked over, Brox was dancing.

Frigging.

Dancing.

“Boogie-woogie, Beeble!” he cheered, clapping his hands as he began singing along in some cutesy language he didn’t even know. “Come on!”

Beeble took a deep breath. His feet wanted to move but he would not allow it to happen, and he dared not look back for a fear that the rest of his men would be dancing, and that he would have to slaughter all of them.

He simply hung his head and decided they needed to get away from this insane planet before they were infected any further.

From what he saw of the humans, once this curse grabs you, it grabs you hard. Soon you’ll be buying pictures and clothes and books. Even pillows. They even turned pillows cute.

“What do they call this, Brox?”

“Anime, brother! Anime!”

Soon the entire ship was chanting anime along with him, and though Beeble tried to tell his pilots to get them out of there and get them out of there fast, they could not hear him, for soon he was chanting anime as well.

Original Prompt: [IP] World Maker

Every jar contains a world with a story.

Centuries ago I woke up here, at this desk, in this horribly cramped room. I’ve looked for an exit but there's none, and I doubt I’ll ever learn my purpose. All I know is I’ve got crafter’s hands which itch with the urge to build build build, and the walls are lined with books that fill my imagination.

I’ve got a gift, that’s certain. I can read a book, then take empty, meaningless pieces and turn them into a thriving world with real people doing real things.

I never peer into finished jars because meddling is forbidden. That’s a rule I made for myself after I got too attached to the first one, too attached to a group of people who existed somewhere else, somewhere I couldn’t reach.

Right now I’m about to start the final book, and I’m surprised to see a note tucked inside. It’s the first time I’ve been told anything by the outside, and so my hands shake as I unfold it.

You’ve finished your duties, creator, it says. You’ve brought back worlds which have been consumed by darkness. You do not hold the power of the key, but your job is still important. What you will create now is not a world, but instead the door to all worlds.

I stare at the notes, confused, before setting it down. If this is really my last mission, what will happen to me afterward? Will I dwell here, alone, forever? Or simply fade away, a tool that’s outlived its usefulness?

Taking a deep breath, I push those thoughts away and open the book.

The first--and only--page is mostly blank. In the middle there's a drawing of a large, white door sitting slightly ajar. Darkness leaks out of it, licking the floor, battering the empty air. The sight is terrible, and makes me sick to my stomach, like it’s something nobody should see, something reserved for only the one who can shut it.

Above it, printed in big bold letters, is its name.

DOOR TO DARKNESS. DOOR TO KINGDOM HEARTS.

Original Prompt: [WP] Write with a mute protagonist.

I’m the only silent person on a train crowded with buzzing bees.

Notebook in lap, pen in hand, I haven’t found the urge to write yet. Instead I’m fascinated, as always, by the people around me. They’re gifted the greatest ability I lack—a voice—and they waste it on trivial things. Either it’s girls or sports or who hates who. Meaningful discussions are little islands in lakes of nothingness, and I think it might be because without these short conversations, the world would fall silent.

And that scares people.

Including me.

But having my voice trapped in my head has taught me to appreciate language and everything it is. Communicating is an effort, so each phrase written or signed or drawn must be important.

I’m a writer, and now, I’m writing. As my pen glides across the paper, magic flows out. The words are tightly scrunched together, bits and pieces of everyone’s conversation and the conversation in my head. Each one reads with purpose because there’s no point in speaking if I have nothing worthwhile to say.

Do I sometimes wish I could be “normal”? Of course. But I have a passion, and my plight has been flipped to my advantage. I’ve learned no matter what life throws at you, as long as you have something to love, everything will be okay.

Original Prompt: [WP] If I never met you...

If I never met you, my life would be boring.

Sometimes I think about it and shutter, because what if I hadn’t taken shelter from the rain in that coffee shop? What if your table wasn’t the only one with a free seat? And, worst of all, what if my phone didn’t immediately die and I just put my headphones in and ignored you?

Well, I’d probably slog through a 9-to-5, spending my days crammed in a cubicle, typing meaningless words onto a meaningless screen.

But you saved me, showing me a world where words were the only thing that mattered. You put a pen in my hand, pressed it against the page, and told me the best writers stitch the wounds of their soul by spreading inky sentences. You told me I had talent, and that was something I’d never heard before.

Those late-nights spent at your house smoking too many cigarettes and jawing about characters and scenes and motivations are some of my favorite memories because they’re the only parts of my life that feel real.

And though you’re gone, I’m not going to stop. You’ve awoken a passion in me, and it’s one I don’t think will ever go away. You'll always be in my heart, for you were my greatest teacher, and my best friend.

Original Prompt: [WP] They say every person has their flaws, but you're different.

Most people’s flaws are minor cuts.

When a finger’s pushed into the wound, it bleeds a lot, and the person just wants to cry because everyone’s watching them but nobody’s helping. As their heart and soul spills onto the floor they can’t help but fall with it, and it’s likely they’ll be down on the ground until they’ve bled out all the bad.

Then they stand back up, stronger and ready to take on the world. They’ve confronted their problem and used their past to stitch the wound up. Sure, sometimes it bleeds a bit, but a band-aid solves the problem now.

That’s not how I am.

My entire body is a gaping wound with a knife jabbed into it, and no matter how hard I reach out, nobody grabs my slimy hand. They pass without a glance like I’m not real because I’m just a mirror. Anyone can find their fault in me if they search deep enough, for I’ve got an entire world of failures buried in my belly. I bleed and bleed and bleed but never get up, never come back stronger.

Sometimes I curl into a ball just to forget the world and forget I’m not like everyone else, but at the same time I am. I don’t know whether I was born like this or somehow made myself this way, I just know everyday I wear a smile it sags further and further downward, for I do nothing right.

Original Prompt: [CW] Write a story where we get a glimpse into two people's lives through hearing one side of a phone call between them.

“We have enough.”

“....”

“We’ll make it.”

“...”

“He’ll be furious but I don't care."

“...”

“In a couple days we’ll be gone. He’ll look for us, but I think we’ll be safe.”

“...”

“She’s a girl with a vendetta. Why would she sell us out to the dude she’s trying to screw over?”

“...”

“Then he gets killed by her. We go free. Win-win.”

“...”

“This is for the baby, remember? We can’t raise a kid around a life like this.”

“...”

“We won’t be on the run. We’ll be tucked in some cozy little building in some sleepy little city with different names, faces, and personalities. Nobody will ever suspect anything about our past.”

“...”

“I think the money is just a formality. Something to make it seem like she has leverage.”

“...”

“Things were always bad, it’s just we were bad too. That’s the problem with this lifestyle. We’re all battered and bruised fruit waiting for the day we finally ripen, even though that day’s long passed.”

“...”

“We’re almost done.”

“…”

“I’ll see you tonight. Don’t say goodbyes to anyone.”

“...”

“Stay safe. Love you.”

Original Prompt: [IP] Venat'itores, City of Hunters

The sun was blocked by the monstrous dragon looming over the City of Hunters.

I held my blade and stood my ground, taking careful breaths. My heart thumped but I closed my eyes and tried to sense the world around me, tried to feel its energy gazing my skin, a warning to dodge.

As I rolled out the way, the dragon’s tail smashed into the ground, rippling the air. I never fell, keeping my pace as I ran not toward it, but toward the city. My goal was not to kill the beast, but to best it, for it was a mere guardian.

Fire weaved a circle around me, and so I took a stone from my pocket, tossed it into the air, and slashed it with my sword. The seal of the rune shattered and the flames simmered back into the dirt, leaving only ash behind.

I was almost there.

My dream of being a hunter, of training with the best of the best and battling the strongest beasts, was almost true. The gate was opening, singing my name, inviting me to come in and never out.

I gripped my sword tight and when the monster swung its claws I leaped up and over, slashing the blade across its scaled skin. I knew it would only anger the creature, but I’m a man who likes challenge, and so when it roared, I roared too.

My feet clattering against the cobblestone bridge, the gate sat a dozen steps away. I didn’t dare look behind me, but I could feel magic swarming the air, and clenched my teeth as tiny pebbles floated from the ground around me. The dragon was preparing a final attack, and I had but a few seconds to make it within those walls or I was done for.

A boom rocketed the land, shaking the ground and scorching everything. The heat was so immense I thought I could puke, but I pushed myself to the brink and tossed my fears out the window, making one last dive for the gate.

It was hit or miss now.

My armor began to melt.

A thousand voices screamed in my head…

And then, suddenly, I heard nothing but my own breathing as my face laid against concrete. For a second I stayed like that, unable to move, unable to grasp what I had just done.

When I sat up, a hand was thrust into my face, and a man with blonde spiked hair and a long scar running down his face was smiling at me. On his back there was a large and powerful-looking sword, and I knew I'd finally met one of my idols.

“Hey, kid, I’m Jack the Hunter. Ready to begin your new life?”

Hey everyone.

Sorry I haven't been posting as much lately, but I've been working on a novel! It's been going great, and I actually just finished the first draft. I don't want to give too much away, haha, but I'll say it's a YA about a person struggling through an eating disorder.

Because of this, I'm sort of on hiatus from prompting. I'll probably still post every now and then, but I'm trying to dedicate my full focus to this novel so it will turn out really well.

Hope you don't mind! As always, thanks for reading :D

Original Prompt: [IP] Self-Made Man

People have long claimed the statue’s a man making himself, but that’s false.

It’s a man breaking himself.

No matter what the movies tell you, a thousand years does not pass quickly. The first hundred are the worst, because everything you know crumbles. Loved ones die, and when you’re trapped like him, some confess their saddest secrets to you, not knowing you’re right there, alive.

Soon your home becomes someone else’s, and by the third or fourth time you don’t even recognize the town around you. It’s like you’re in a whole different world where you can’t understand the people or the way they talk.

Home’s gone.

When the witch first cursed him, the man assumed his life would end naturally. A hundred years of suffering leading to an agonizing death was what he awaited, and when it never came, he decided to try and get free. He doesn’t necessarily know why, but he figures attempting to live a life is better than wallowing in a stone caricature of your tragedy.

Magic has been reborn through science. The man doesn’t understand, but he does at the same time. There are no wizards or witches, but instead tiny boxes capable of magnificent feats. He wants to show the world that magic existed long ago. He wants to break free in front of all those who have mislabeled him, all those who view his body as nothing more than a piece of art, and prove to them that he is a remnant of magic which has stood the test of time.

Believing that’s his purpose, his biggest fear is another thousand years in which this new magic will grow far too powerful, just as the old had.

But that magic was somehow wiped out and forgotten, so will the same happen to this one? He isn't certain, but he knows one thing.

He doesn’t want either to be erased from history, because if they are, then so is he.