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Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

There are most likely not going to be prizes for writing, other than the satisfaction of actually writing something.

Everyone is free to join.

Each week, there'll be three prompts available. One will be an idea, one will be a picture, and the last will be a random quote or even a word/phrase I made up to base your writing off of. Please don't get too off-topic, though I understand the interpretations will be very different :)

You may attempt as many prompts as you like.

There is no time limit. However, if you wish to have a self-imposed one (say..one written in 1 hr), you are free to do so.

 

Prompt #1: Write a story set in a world in the future, where machine and men are basically one and the same.

Prompt #2: Sharing an ice cream during the apocalypse.

Prompt #3: "Is revenge a science or an art?"

Stealing the tagging list from Axiom. Please inform me if you don't wish to be tagged to this anymore.

@WouldntItBeNice @Steve24833 @JJJ-thebanisher @bbshark @Bucky @mizal @FrankIevatus @TheNewIAP @Romulus @TacocaT @Crescentstar @Mayana @Zulutrader @MasonJarGuzzi @Ogre11 @malkalack @Charaxes @eshspoyeofdoom @RoyalGhost_007 @StillWatersRunDeep @temporaryaccount @ISentinelPenguinI @Drew8521 @Orange @LickReborn @ZagHero

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

(Copypasta tagging doesn't work AFAIK.)

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Ah. Well. That's sad. I'll have to rewrite everytime xD

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
It works. Though I believe you cannot edit in tags once posted. You'll have to do a new post to tag new people.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Well, I know about the editing part :) and I haven't done that.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I think it worked for me. :/ idk

 

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

It's the non-breaking spaces.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I pick number two

It was the apocalypse, in which hundreds of people were dying every single minute. But there was one man who was determined to save the world, save life as we all know it. But first he decided to get some ice cream with his friends who were hiding from the apolalypse.

Later in Dairy Queen

"We'd like a table outside." Our hero said, which was incredibly pointless and stupid since nobody was there. They got some ice cream and left the building to sit at a table surrounded by craters and busted chairs. "How did a single table survive?"

They began sharing their ice cream during the apocalypse. Our Hero began to eye his friends very suspiciously. They looked at him like he was crazy, and they suddenly realized he was gonna steal their ice cream.

They started chasing after him, ice cream in hand. A few random survivors hopped out of bushes and from behind rocks to join in the chase for Ice Cream Justice. There were about ten people following our hero, and he eventually had no choice but to fight.

There they were, in the Walmart parking lot, ready to duke it out. Our Hero grabbed one dude by the arm and threw him around like a rag doll, then he let go and the guy went flying into a nearby metal pole. Three of the people ran towards our Hero.

"Not so fast!" He jumped into a nearby car, that's not cliche at all. He turned the keys which just happened to be there, and began driving around the parking lot. It wasn't long before he smashed the three people below his tires.

There were only six left, but four of them charged at the car. Our hero killed two by running them over, but the other two flew through the windshield and made him hit the brakes. One punched him in the crotch while the other choked him. Suddenly, our hero remembered something his father said to him.

"ARE YOU JUST GONNA LET THESE FUCKING MORONS KICK YOUR ASS, OR ARE YOU GONNA DO SOMETHING YOU IDIOT!?"

Inspired, he broke his elbow free and elbowed the man choking him in the nose. Blood began to drip, and the man passed out. While wincing in pain as the other man continued to beat his crotch, our hero threw the body of the nosebleeding man out the window. He turned to the concious man and gave him a good uppercut.

A nasty bruise was now forming on the mans chin, and our hero made sure he wasn't gonna wake up anytime soon by beating his crotch, yelling, "HOW DO YOU LIKE IT BITCH!?" He got out of the car. The only two left were his friends, and one was on a motorcycle speeding towards him. The other was riding on the back while shooting a pistol.

Our Hero threw a shopping cart, and it hit the driver in the face, sending him toppling off the motorcycle. The other one swerved out of control, and the motorcycle fell over. Our Hero had won in an Ice Cream glory!

He died two days later from eating eight pounds of ice cream.

The End

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

We should do voting or something for these threads xD

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I don't want to make anyone feel bad if they were in last place so I don't think we should do voting. Besides, these prompts are for fun :)

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Well writing this one was certainly fun xD

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Yup! I really liked that ice cream picture xD and the stories you guys made based on it :D

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Yes, the picure was awesome xD

"Oh hey, wanna go get some ice cream in the middle of the end of the world?"

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Just casually eating that ice cream in a boot xD

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

*Huge explosion*

HOLY SHIT GUYS!!

We forgot the rainbow sprinkles!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

The sun explodes.

"Oh no! We forgot the chocolate syrup!"

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

The galaxy turns into a war tank being invaded by zombies with explosions everywere

"NOT THE CHOCOLATE SYRUP!!!"

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I feel like you two would like the webcomic / short story that picture is from, seeing as it is basically as nonsensical as the events you've just described.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
“Well what do you expect me to do with it, Jimmy?”

“I thought you might eat it.”

“Really? That’s what you thought? You give me ice cream in a boot and you expect me to eat it? Did you notice that Tim over there is the one with the spoon? Yes, he has a spoon, but I do not. Oh, and then there’s this whole ‘gas mask’ thing we’ve got going on. Did you notice that? So I have a gas mask and no spoon and you expect me to eat the ice cream. Are you trying to kill me Jimmy?”

Tim mumbled, “I could share the spoon with you, you know.”

“Shut up Tim, this isn’t about you. This is about Jimmy, ice cream, and him wanting me dead. Is that what you want, Jimmy? You want me dead? Is it because you want to steal my gas mask? It is, isn’t it? I have a much better gas mask. You’ve been looking at the eyes of this thing and I can’t count how many times you’ve mentioned that you like the blue in the goggles so much more than red.”

“No, Bill, it’s not about your gas mask. I just found some ice cream and thought you might like some. That’s all.”

Tim said, “I could go for some ice cream right now.”

“Shut UP Tim! Jimmy didn’t give you any ice cream. And why is that, Jimmy? If you’re just trying to be nice, why did you just get ice cream for me, huh? Not trying to kill Tim, are you? You just want me out of the way so you can have my gas mask. Either that or my coat. You have mentioned how much you like my coat, too.”

“Actually, Bill, Tim is lactose intolerant. That’s why I didn’t give him any.”

Tim said, “Only a little bit.”

“SHUT UP, Tim! When are you going to realize that old Jimmy here is trying to kill us both off? He’s invited us to this nice table with the shotgun umbrella, and now he wants us dead. That’s it, I’m leaving. You two can keep your portable ice cream stand, I’m going to see what’s on the other side of the falls.”

Tim looked over at Jimmy as Bill stomped off.

“Yes, Tim, you can have the ice cream. But don’t blame me when you get a belly ache.”

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I just noticed there's a picture there, so I hope this different version of ice cream thing gets accepted. Also, I was kinda pressed for time, sorry :(


"Dave?"
"Yeah Ashley?" Dave replied swallowing a chunk of ice cream he dug out of the box with his makeshift spoon. They sat on a ledge beside a road, staring into the broken highway whose chunks lied on what was now a desert:
"Do you know there was grass there once." Dave stared into some twisted form of cacti that started growing there. It was peaceful. Absolutely nothing besides them was heard:
"It's hard to imagine isn't it?" Dave said slowly swallowing another chunk of ice cream. Ashley tried her best to imagine how an aboundance of grass would look like:
"Would you like there to be grass?" Dave stopped eating the ice cream. He saw her eyes glitter in the sunlight, struggling to contain the tears inside:
"I would."
Around a dozen seconds of silence passed: "Why are we still here?"
"How do you mean?"
"Why are we… Cursed to be born into this time. Why did God do this Dave?" Her eyes couldn't struggle anymore, and two large drops of water flowed down her cheeks. Dave placed his hand around her, gripping her tightly:
"I'll tell you why we're here. Because we're strong. This wasteland needs strong people, and God considered us to be strong enough. We're alive because we didn't give up. We're still here because we are smart."
"I don't want to be here."
"Neither do I."
"Can't we just go? I'm sick of it."
"The way I see it is that we're badass motherfuckers. Life made a bet it will break us. It didn't. And it owes us now. And I am not leaving until that debt is paid."
Ashley smiled through the tears: "But it's been throwing shit at us for thirty years now. What makes you think it will stop."
Dave noticed his speech failed. It worked on their daughter, before she died, but it doesn't work on her mother:
"Because this can't be it. It just can't. It doesn't make sense to live like a dog the entire life without anything going your way. I'm telling you, something will happen. Just wait and you'll see."
"Look at that." Ashley spoke after a short period of silence, in which she completely laid in Dave's lap. She pointed at the same wasteland as before:
"There's nothing left. We're not even supposed to be alive."
"How do you mean there's nothing left? I see road, you can us that to build something. I see sand, you can use that to distil water. I also see cactus, you can eat that. Good, that cactus. It lives here like we do. It shouldn't be there. Nothing should be there. Yet it is. Life finds a way." They kept quiet for a few minutes:
"I would just like to see how grass smells? I've read such wonderful things about it. Is it too much to ask for?"
"This is because of the grass? Well, it's been a long time since the bombs fell. And I've heard talks about life in Kentucky (it's the first thing that fell on my mind.). If there's any life, there has to be some grass."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Let me tell you, we don't have to sleep here tonight. Eat the ice cream and we'll go, see if it's true."
"I know it's not true."
"How'd you know?"
"It's unlikely. Less then 10% I reckon." Ashley like throwing out random numbers. The sun was setting:
"Well, that's still a precentage."

They smiled and finished the ice cream.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I'll throw my hat into this: Prompt 3 is what I'm going for so....

 

"Is revenge a science or an art?"

I remember someone saying this to me, what a ponderous question, in a world where people get wronged every minute of every day, there's always a recompense. A man steals your lunch, you take their cash, which in turn leads to people seeking recompense for that, worsening ever slightly until eventually it becomes something far more....In a sense, it can be an art.

However, there is the matter of revenge in general as a science, planning has to go into the very creation of this revenge so as to ensure no retaliation or any trace of the culprit, that's those who try to keep their revenge in their head and not out in the open, the creation of the tools of such a dark trade, yet another science, needs to be applied along with probability. Reaching a singular point where in revenge is exacted.....

If you were to ask me if I thought it was both...Well, as I stand above this man who lay bleeding before me, the man who posed this question, the man responsible for the ruination of my life, which started very benign and grew to this level, in my hand a lighter, just a single drop and it all goes in smoke...The preparation of such a thing through the science of death....My last words, both to him and the world, will be the answer....

Let go....one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. There it is....

"I believe it's both."

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Am I too 'Marauder' for people to notice me now? :'(

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Oh hush, nobody has commented on any of them yet xD

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I liked it :D

I'm sorry. I've just been too busy today to comment much on any of them, not just yours, and I didn't think you'd want your story editlocked.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Eh, I was pretty content with how it turned out in the end.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

(Prompt one)

You May Kiss the Machine

“Look, all I’m saying is that our family has a long bloodline of pureblooded humans. Marrying a robot is just…well, it’d be weird, son. Do you understand what I’m saying? Why not try to find a nice human girl, huh? I’m sure you’ll find they have more to offer.”

Remi couldn’t believe his father was soooo stuck in the 22nd century. Nowadays, it was totally normal for robots and humans to marry. “Dad, it’s the 23rd century, get with the times. Fina and I love each other. As for what she can offer, she can offer far more than any mere mortal can. She offers love, compassion, other things…” he blushed as he trailed off, “she can even bear children. What could a human possibly do that she can’t?”

The older man huffed. “For starters, she wouldn’t taint our family name.” Remi stormed out of the little apartment his parents lived in, livid with his father for having such an anthropocentric outlook on life. His father called after him, “Remigius! Remigius! Get back here right this instant!”

Remi sped walked three miles to the little café on Main Street where his fiancé worked. He burst through the door, not caring who would hear, and shouted to the entire place, loud enough for everyone in the café to hear, “Fina! We’re going to elope! Meet me in City Hall as soon as your shift is over!” With that, he quickly walked out, the only sound coming from the little bell connected to door.

Inside the café, Fina was shocked, abhorred, and excited. However, being a robot, she couldn’t handle mixed emotions and decided that she was happy to elope. She was a beautiful woman, originally built to model clothing, and she had every feminine charm a man could wish for. That all went downhill when her modeling company went out of business and she was left on the streets without a job. Not being given much intelligence when she was built, she was only supposed to be a model after all, the only jobs she could find were little waitressing jobs. None of her coworkers knew she wasn’t human, not that they would care either way. Only the older people tended to have prejudices against machines anymore.

Fina, and robots like her, looked human, acted human, and if they underwent an extensive surgery, had installed wombs and were able to bear human children. Their eggs were synthetic, but worked in exactly the same way as human eggs did. She was so excited to make their baby once she married Remi! She already had exactly planned what she wanted the baby to look like: purple eyes, black hair, upturned nose, and a few freckles spread out on his cheeks. Definitely a boy with high intelligence and perfect teeth, as well as immune to most genetic diseases. Designer babies were expensive, but well worth the money. As is the catchphrase of the time, why bother having a child, if it isn’t born right.

As soon as her afternoon shift was over, Fina burst through the café door and into the streets, running towards city hall and Remi. Once in the building, a very ugly robot who even had her gears showing allowed them to sign the paperwork and gave them their marriage license. “Are we married?” asked Fina.

“Of course not,” answered her fiancé, “we need someone to officiate our wedding. My buddy, Valentine, can do it. He used to work at a drive through place, you know, before cars were banned.”

“He must be ancient!”

“Yeah, he’s like 200 years old! The old geezer’s so rich, he’ll keep paying off doctors and live well past our grandkids.”

The couple ran to an old, millennium style house on Dymphna Avenue. Remi pressed the doorbell, marriage license clutched in hand. The doorbell rang out the tune to Ave Maria inside the mansion while Fina and Remi waited impatiently. Once the entire hymn had played, an old, friendly looking man answered the door. “Remigius! What a pleasant surprise. And who do we have here?” He looked at Fina.

The woman shook his hand, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Fina and I’m Remi’s, or uhh, Remigius’ fiancé.” She wasn’t used to calling him by his full name.

The young couple explained that they wished to marry, today. Valentine smiled, “well come on in, I love to see two people so in love. Remigius, why aren’t you having a large wedding? I thought your parents would have wanted that.”

Remi didn’t miss a beat, “my father disapproves of me marrying a robot.”

“Well that’s too bad. Are you sure you want your family to miss your marriage? You only get married one. Well umm, hopefully.” The old man chuckled.

“No sir, we’re ready now if you are.”

Valentine seemed slightly disappointed, but rather than complain, he said something about needing a witness and called in his butler, Blaise. They entered the old man’s living room and began the short ceremony.

“Do you, Remigius Agericus take this robot, Fina Augustine to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

“And do you, Fina Augustine, take this man, Remigius Agericus, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.”

“Then by the power vested in me by Lord Peter, the president of our United Earth, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the machine.”

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Nice. I like this one almost as much as I like mine. :D

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Thank you! I liked yours, too. It gave me a good laugh.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Stories about eating ice cream during the apocalypse do that often. xD

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Let's try prompt #1

A body of rubber, yet a head full of ideas.  You just finish up etching the spaceship into the pavement with chalk in front of your father's house.  Jimmy is very busy working on something else.  It looks like a horse- or maybe a dog.  You can't tell the difference.  Maybe next you'll draw a house, or maybe an alien for your spaceship!

Slam!

From the doorway of the house across the street comes a a woman with perfect tan skin.  She is sprinting towards your house with a expression mixed with terror and anger.  She grabs Jimmy's arm and jerks him away from his picture so hard the chalk falls right out of his hand.

"Get away from him Jimmy!" She says, as she pulls the young boy away from you.

"Stop! I'm not finished with my cat!" Jimmy says pulling back against his mother.

His pulling does nothing against his mother's superior strength.  She drags him through his yard and through his door and it shuts with another slam.

The next day you see Jimmy playing outside with a red ball all by himself.  You and Jimmy used to play with the red ball together all the time back at school.  You run outside to play with him.  When he sees you he immediately sets down the ball and gives you a look that you've never seen in him before.  He looks giddy and unlike himself.

"Let's play!" You say, grabbing the ball and bouncing it.

Jimmy grabs the ball before you can. "My mom says I can't play with a rubberhead anymore!"

Before you can say anything else he runs into his house with the ball and the door shuts with another slam.  Your left alone in the street with no one else.  You and Jimmy had met on the first day of school, and had always been great friends.  None of the other kids ever really played with you and that was fine.  Was it really fine?  Did no one play with you because you were a 'rubberhead'? You look down at the deep yellow of your hand.  Is that why Jimmy didn't want to play with you? You had never really compared the yellow and the beautiful tan of the other kids.  The yellow that you had never really thought about before now disgusted you.

You run into your house, tears streaming down your rubbery face.  You run past your parents watching something on CNN and slam your door shut.  A couple of minutes later your father comes into your room.

"What's wrong?"

"I hate me! I wish that I had beautiful tan skin instead of this ugly yellow."

Your father takes a deep breath.  "Do you know who you are?"

"I'm hideous.  Nobody wants to play with me, not even Jimmy!"

"Do you know who you are?"

"You always say that I'm special." You say wiping away tears.

"Beyond your skin, beyond your artificial body structure, beyond your entire body, you are a soul.  You are the most incredible thing that could possibly be put onto this earth. Beyond your body you are the most beautiful, kind, energetic, loving thing that could be put onto this earth.  When someone tells you otherwise, laugh at them.  When you know who you are no one else can tell you a lie about yourself and have you believe them.  Now whatever you do with your soul is up to you.  Are you going to let Jimmy tell you who you are, or are you going to tell Jimmy who you are?  Are you going to show Jimmy what is beyond your rubber body, and what is inside of you, or are you going to let him be right?  The choice is up to you."

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I'm horrible at writing don't judge me :(

Prompt 1 and 2 combined into a story! Featuring: A Tangerine, A dog, and a number. I would like to credit Disney for the use of Elmo and his characters. I hope they don't sue me.

I am the one. The only one.

"Hey guys, let's buy some orange ice cream!" Tangerine says.

"No way Tanner. I'm broke and besides, this world is set in a digital world. There's a dancing computer already..." Doge says.

Twelve hesitantly looks around. "Why are we in a digital world again?"

"The world ended a long time ago. It got demolished by the people from Sesame Street!" Tangerine says.

As Tangerine says that, something odd happens. The digital world they're in malfunctions. It slowly turns into 1's and 0's. An error sign appears saying, "The program you oranges are in has been broken by a Furchester. Ahahahahah... See you in the real world!" The last thing thing they saw before pulling back into reality is... a red furry face.

Alas, they returned to reality. Their body has changed from their digital selves to human selves. Tangerine turned into Tanner, Doge turned into Doge, Twelve turned into Plelb. They are in the caves, the only safe place in the world with their infected computer. They hoped that one day, the world would be normal so they took refuge.

"We have to face reality again..." Tanner says.

"Let's bring this broken world back! But first, let me take a selfie." Doge says.

"Huh?" Plelb says.

"I meant let's get some ice cream! I'm hungry" Hungry says.

They exit the cave and make way to the closest ice cream store. Sadly, It's already demolished by the Robots. Those robots are the most advanced beings on the world. They have something no other ordinary robot doesn't. They have... Freedom. Freedom for a robot is both a blessing and a curse. Freedom can make a robot be able to do anything. They can help people or build things on their own. They can make kid shows that entertain children. Sadly, too much freedom is bad. Those robots can feel like they are the best and do anything they... did anything they want with the humans.

They rummaged through the ruins and found the last melted ice cream. Its flavored... Banana. Tanner loves banana ice cream. They drank or... ate the ice cream under a purple umbrella and watched the world getting demolished.

"Any last words guys?" Hungry asks.

"I want to digitally dance with digital style using a electric dragon" Plelb says.

"How about you Doge?" Hungry asks obviously.

"Life is like a clock.

It never stops until it ends

It goes tick tock tick tock.

Until there's nothing left to contend"

As Doge recites the poem, the story ends. There is nothing to contend. The world goes black and fades away. The robots have destroyed everything. THE END.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
I'll edit lock this so I can laugh at my horrible writing.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Short, but not bad.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
I'm horrible at writing. There's even a plot hole that can be noticed.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Mine was amazing tho

Remember, no matter how bad you are, there's always someone worse then you.

Unless you're kain.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
Seto will probably laugh at my horribly horrible story and poetry.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

At first, I thought it was a coincidence that oranges were mentioned and there was a character named Tangerine. Then Tangerine turned into Tanner and Tanner loves banana ice cream. This is plagiarism of my life; expect to be sued. See you in court. 

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
Ack! Minnie you have to defend me!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I do actually know a lot about being a lawyer. My dad was one... before he went to jail, that is.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

These are some great character names.

You don't mind if I steal them.

I love near future apocalypse stories.  With the advent of technology, maybe the world will be coming to an end soon. O.O

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Yeah... I have a decently close friend on League who has "Doge" in his name lol. Thievery and more thievery.

?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Doge is the most original name ever!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

No, MinnieKing is. I wonder who was awesome enough to choose that name.

Oh wait!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
Objection! Minnie Mouse is the most original name!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

No. Bad, plelb, bad.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

It's okay, he was wrong anyway. Orange is the most original name. It's not like there's a fruit or a color called orange or anything. It's SUPER original!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

What color is your profile picture?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

A mixture of red and yellow

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

What are the objects called?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
Colors.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Pixels!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

...What were you eating when you made your account name?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

A citrus!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

What type of citrus?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Clementines!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Fruitist. Next thing you know you'll be calling tomatoes vegetables. Sickening.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
Actually, those are vegetarians.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Get roasted

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Get eaten

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

This is very, very awkward.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

The one that is the color of red mixed with yellow!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

What's the meaning of life?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

The meaning of life is to crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentations of their women. However, the answer to life, the universe, and everything is 42. Nobody really knows the question to the answer 42, but at least we have half the equation.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Wrong.

The meaning of life is...

TO LET YOUR OPPONENTS BURN IN HELL SO YOU CAN STAB THEM WHILE THEY'RE BURNING AND EAT THEIR FLESH, THEN THROW THEM INTO A PIT OF OIL AND WATCH THEM BURN INTO A HEAP OF RAGS

Or have children. It's basically the same thing, really.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
No, it isn't. Burning your enemies is like so different from having children.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

In what way?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Do you even need an answer to that question? IT'S OBVIOUSLY OBVIOUS

Well, there are many different ways onto why that is so different. The thing is... I have to sleep later soon so I'll let @Wigglewigglewiggle do the talking.

Pst... Wiggle, just explain the obvious to Minnie. I need to write comments on stories to get commendations for my order!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Or mabye you're too lazy and can't name any?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Take this to PMs guys. It's really destructive/obtrusive for the thread as amusing as it may be.

 

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
Yeah. I think this thread got derailed from the most original character to...

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Whatever the hell this is.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
No, it's a C...... Itrus

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
Don't forget the white parts!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Those are bright yellow.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Mastering revenge is like mastering the blade.

That is what my shi-fu told me ten years ago, when I first held a blade. Back then, it was but the length of my arm, perhaps a tad longer. Now, I carry this long, steel Tang sword. It's light-weight and quick, just how revenge should be.

I draw the sword from the decorated sheath by my side. I move to form, the blade vertically in front of me. I tip it forward, adjusting myself quickly to balance.

Swiftly, I begin move through the steps of the dragon dance. It used to be a ritual-like dance to honor some forgotten gods. Shi-fu had adapted the dance into a unique form that nobody has seen before. However, only he and I know. Never shall the word spread. Never shall others know unless they study the moves with patience and intelligence.

My sword arm soars high. Then, my body snaps into a spin, blocking an invisible attacker from striking my exposed side. My other hand is by my side, still in balance. I whip my sword toward my foe, the head of a angry dragon. Then, a leap to the side to avoid a feint. Know when to pause and regain sharpness.

I begin to weave and strike. Step left, strike. Step right, dodge, strike. My soft cotton slippers do not slip on the smooth floor. Instead, I use it to my advantage. I'm a sleek snake, striking and dodging. Do not let them catch you, for they will have no mercy. And neither shall you.

Suddenly, I push forward, snapping my sword. Imagining the surprise, the pain. The quick death. I sheathe my sword just as quickly and step back. I must always remember that I cannot let my opponent suffer. That is no honorable defeat. That is similar to defeat by greedy sages with nothing better to do. And those are the people that should die.

I hear a thunderous clapping, and I turn to Shi-fu, waiting to hear the words I've been longing to hear since I was six years old.

"Avenge your family."

I bow to him, my leather clothes not making a sound. "Yes, shi-fu."

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Hey, for my little story-thingy, I would like to know if it'd be better if I keep it the way I wrote it, or remove the parts where how it relates to vengeance is explained and let the readers interpret themselves.

Also, please don't reply to (edit lock) my above writing post.

EDIT: Oh, and any feedback is always appreciated! :D

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I really liked this! I especially liked the imagery.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Alright, You should remove the parts where vengeance is explained. If you just spell out the obvious to your readers then it would be boring and they think you treat them as a child.

It's even worse than adding clutter to your sentences. It removes all the thrill and suspense. Look, i'll make 2 really short stories with the same topic and tell me which is better.

The Order War (The obvious is depicted and sentences are clogged with clutter)

It was one ordinary day on Cystia. People are writing angsty poetry as usual and plagiarizers like to annoyingly plagiarize. There is the usual riff-raff in the forum games that is gonna get deleted soon so hooray. Hey look! An administrator is updating the site with numerous cool and nice features that make me so happy. I feel so happy that there are so many updates in this very cool site.

After a million nanoseconds, the site has been updated! I write to myself, "Huh? There are orders? I'm a sage... The most cliche order..."

Oh no! The forums has been spammed by the people on this cool site. I then exit my annoying browser and slowly raged because there is no more good forum posts.

The Order War (The slightly better version)

It was one ordinary day on Cystia. People are writing angsty poetry as usual and newbs introducing themselves. There is the usual riff-raff in the forum games that is gonna get deleted soon. Hey look! An administrator is updating the site with numerous features. I feel so happy that the updates aren't stagnant anymore.

I talked to my friend, Winnie the Pooh. He said that the site has been updated. I checked out the update and write to myself, "Huh? There are orders? I'm a sage... The most cliche order..."

Oh no! The forums has been spammed! I exit my browser and never went back to write on this site again. God knows what has happened there...

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Sages aren't cliche.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Too bad. You edit locked it.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Good, now I can do a mexican hat dance and celebrate with cupcakes.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Okie! Thanks. I liked the examples. When I get back on the computer, I can make the edits. :)

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
You have to hurry and make the edits before someone replies to your story and says, "E is for edit locked!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Rewriting your posts is an excellent way to earn a commendation!!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Wait, really? Okay, one minute. I need to go rewrite something...

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Make sure it's significantly improved!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

(Prompt 1...I tried a different writing style xD)

Excerpts of Various Articles and Other Misc. Writing of the 2111 Year

"I remember a world where humans and machines were separate. Where machines were bulky metal objects, as far apart from humans as a cat from a table. But that was a long time ago, almost a century. Things have changed since then, and now it's a popular belief that machines have a soul as much as a human does.

So what separates us? What separates a human from a machine, when we can both feel (whether it's synthetic or not?), when we look the same, when the only difference between us is the wires and cogs within our bodies and the hearts and flesh within theirs?"
--Robert Type-1172, The Difference

 

"They say because they look the same, this is just! They say because they can now imitate us, we should let them move into our lives and let them take over everything we have! Machines and men? Pah! More like monsters and men. They may be able to imitate feelings, but we will not be fooled! I see them, taking over our jobs, marrying our sons and daughters, all the while pretending to be one of us, but I refuse to be fooled! Everyone else may be enamored by these...human imposters....but we know the truth, and we'll fight to protect everything we love until our dying breath!"
--Don Trive, Humans Against Robot Oppression Speech

 

"8-20-2111

They cry. These robotic monsters, they cry at night, wailing for their mother and father. They cry like real children, and it's getting hard for me to remember what they really are. When I take them apart, they keep crying. Only when I remove their power cores do they stop, but their cries, they echo in my head. They even have tears. The blonde one, she reminds me of Anna. I have to remember what I'm doing this for. They're monsters, not real children.

...God forgive me..."
--Trisha Vayne, Untitled Medical Journal Excerpt

 

"12-12-2111
Father is livid that I am in love with a robotic man. He has threatened to disown me, even saying,"I would rather see you die than let you continue dating that...thing." Father says robots are not even capable of love, but if that is the case, then what is this feeling me and Robert share?
Robert wants me to elope with him, but how can I leave behind all these memories? All my dreams and hopes? How can I leave my home?"
--Bianca Trive, Untitled Dairy entry #12
-Note: Miss Trive was reported missing 4 days after this journal's date. Curiously enough, it was not her dad that reported her missing, but her concerned boyfriend.

 

"Mama's always gone now. I ask her where she goes everyday, but she never tells me. She always smiles sadly and ruffles my hair, then tells me,"You're not old enough yet."

I always ask her when I'll be old enough, but she never tells me. I'm 7 and a half, a whole year older than Teddy, and mama took him with her yesterday. I don't think its fair she keeps telling me I'm not old enough, yet shows Teddy where she goes."
--Allison Vayne, Untitled Diary entry #23

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

This.

I was going to do to the second one, but I kinda wanna make a short story based on the fundamentals here. Discrimination, frustration, humanity, identity, jealously, conflict. Beautiful.

EDIT: Fuck. Sorry.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

It's fine, T-Count :)

I think I've made all the edits I needed to, anyways xD

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

If you'd like to comment on my writing, please reply to this post instead of the one containing my story :)

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

This prompt really is good for thought.  What is a soul.  Is it what drives a human.  Are souls good and just the body bad?  Is there a difference between the soul of an animal and a man?  Do souls need time to develop? Could the soul of a man be put into the a the metal shell of a robot?  Could the robots really be human souls transferred from a body of flesh to a body of metal?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Can I make a giant chessboard made of ice?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

The world may never know.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

The answer is yes, because i've done it. I also played a game with them. My opponent is sadly frozen to death, and i'm still waiting on their next turn.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

It probably didn't help that the room was -20 degrees Celsius and you had a winter jacket and your opponent didn't.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

...have you been stalking me?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

O.O

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Thank you ^_^

And yes, it really is.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I really like yours, I love when stories are only told through snippets of dialogue or journal/diary entries. Only thing I can suggest is make the medical journal excerpt more authentic. I don't think a medical professional would bother to add ellipses to show omission to a journal. The bolding made by Allison could be done away with too, but that's to a lesser extent.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Hmm...would underlines work? I was trying to accentuate those particular words. And I will try and fix up the medical journal :) 

Ive never written one of these, so thanks for the help, Banner ^_^

I love stories told through snippets of dialogue and journal/diary entries as well. Especially ones that give you just enough information to understand a bit of what's going on, but leaves the conclusions up to you. C

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Yeah, underlining a word is more believable than bolding a word. It's still not very believable, but sometimes you have to sacrifice realism for enjoyment.

Yep, Epistolary novels are usually interesting. Got any favorites?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Hmm...I don't remember the title for this one, but it takes place in space. A mysterious virus killed off all the people on a large ship, and the ship's computer recorded all the dying thoughts of the people within.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

I am missing out on life, apparently.

 

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

The only thing I could find is The Last Starship by Michael Carroll.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Hmm...doesn't ring a bell. Don't think it's that one.

I'll do some digging and see if i can find more about it.

Writing Prompt: Week #1,2,3

2 months ago

I got you, Zag.

There are those with plenty. There are those with few. There are the affluent and there are the impoverished. There are those who live. There are those who must survive. Social status exists in every society. Whether it is large scale or on a simpler one, some must strive at the bottom while others are sufficiently kept at the top.

However, despite one’s social rankings, there are things that all men need. There are priorities that every man strives for and commits himself to. Food, water, air, these are all material necessities. Essential as they may be, they’ve no sentimental value.

The matter of sentiment. It’s a foolish thing to live by for some. Many would easily agree that such things are secondary to the bare essentials. They simply see the need for survival, and thus these things are most valuable to them.

Not everyone has the luxury. To certain men, their sentiment is everything. To men who know how to fight, spirit is vital. To men who spend each of their days in tears, grief and joy become more meaningful than food and drink. To men that spend every living hour yelling in pain, vigor and passion are fundamental. These men are already failing to survive. All their efforts are placed on their sentimental goals.

To those who lost hope in their survival, living another day means nothing. It would just be ongoing meaningless pain. Pain without a clear end. Pain without a remedy. Only to be suffered or to be ignored.

This man didn’t need food. Not water. He would give up air. All these things were mere tools for him to live on, but he only had one purpose for living. What this man needed was something beyond that.

Society wouldn’t give it to him. He was the outlier. It has nothing to offer to him, and it certainly wouldn’t give him what he needed now. As such, in order to give anything to himself, he had to become a thief.

The civilization he was in would steal, he was sure. No would find their actions crimes; they were for the greater good. The masses needed to survive. Respectable, he found that, but he had greater respect for himself. He had to. He was his own person, and if anyone was designated to take care of him, it was himself. So, he was not only shameless, but devoted to his lifestyle.

The things he’d need to steal to make to the end of the day. The things he’d need to hear to let himself sleep at night. He had to make it on his own, and when that wasn’t a possibility, he’d have to steal. He had to protect himself. No one else would.

The thing he needed was different from everyone else’s needs, but it was the same in many ways. In short, he needed acceptance, he needed a suitable home. The one he struggled would not suffice. He needed stability. He needed a life other than the one he lived. What he needed to do to survive was take from the community. He’d have to take an identity. And, in order to do that, he’d need to take a life.

Coincidences. To the common eye, they mean nothing but a peculiarity. To the tearful eye, they mean more. To the tired eye, they mean opportunity. To the desperate eye, they mean hope. This coincidence to him was more than that. It was hope. Hope. To a man who starved and could only feed on his passions, hope was a cornucopia. This man had the hope he strived for. The life he yearned for. The face he’d die for. But he was not going to die. That wasn’t his plan, anyways.

No. He’d live. All he needed was the mask.

He was the splitting image of the man. His body moved with the same slothfulness, one tired from arduous work to support his family. The other exhausted from consistent stressful poverty. The same skin tone. The body much the same, size, weight and all. He’d have to only change one thing. The face. He’d have to be recognized as someone other than himself. If he was going to live the life he coveted, he’d need the face to be cut off.

This he knew for years. This man was no new target. He spent ages studying him, adopting his mannerisms, learning his niche in society, calculating his actions. He needed his life, so he made diligent mimicry of it. All this would pay off when the day finally passed.

On that day, the mask would be his. On that day, he’d be ready to forever change his face. Whatever it took, he’d even remove his own. But he felt certain that he’d be recognized with the new face. Arguably, his plan was insane, only plausible through crazed, desperate eyes. But to him, to those eyes, it was his only hope.

Never again would he see his family fade. Never again would he starve. Never again would he suffer nights alone. Everything a man’s heart could want was only available to him through that man’s face.

He had a multitude of blades prepared. He was more than ready for his task. He practiced his assaults regularly. Other possible substitutes for his victim fell to his hands. A machete stolen in the night meant a dead animal the next day. A dagger misplaced in the day meant a night of dead children and young teenagers who failed to make curfew. An innocuous glass shard in his hands meant a massacre. It was crunch time. Time to step on skulls. Get messy. The end is the goal now. End justifies any means so long as they were successful. He’d never be traced, he assured himself.

Skin peeling off the temples. Blood spilling out from the facial organs, weakening the hopeless victim. At the end, leftover paste attached to red swollen muscle of exposed face. Drive, passion, pride, experience motivated the killer and overwhelmed the victims.  He lived in the shadows of society all his life. Good, the shadows were an excellent place to hide and do his bidding. He built his ladder on the removed heads of his victims. The only faces they’d be able to associate the crime with would be the face of victims.

Two more coming. Don't respond.

Writing Prompt: Just Week #1

2 months ago

Eh, screw it, edit lock. I'm not gonna be able to finish the others tonight. Oh well. Thumbs up for progress. Maybe tomorrow I'll actually continue that other CYOA thread.

Any feedback, guys?

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

@temporaryaccount

Good for you Boss! Get your furry butt off that throne and do something!

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

@ZagHero There ya go.

Also, how many times was I tagged to this? My notifications is showing like a dozen tags notices for this thread alone. Very buggy.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
Commended by JJJ-thebanisher on 1/18/2017 8:40:58 PM

(A/N: I rewrote this story so that it actually has a conflict, unlike my previous version. I used most of the same dialogue, but changed a lot about the plot)

You May Kiss the Machine

“Look, all I’m saying is that our family has a long bloodline of pure-blooded humans. Marrying a robot is just…well, it’d be weird, son. Do you understand what I’m saying? Why not try to find a nice human girl, huh? I’m sure you’ll find they have more to offer.”

Remi couldn’t believe his father was soooo stuck in the 22nd century. Nowadays, it was totally normal for robots and humans to marry. “Dad, it’s the 23rd century, get with the times. Fina and I love each other. As for what she can offer, she can offer far more than any mere mortal can. She offers love, compassion, other things…” he blushed as he trailed off, “she can even bear children. What could a human possibly do that she can’t?”

The older man huffed. “For starters, she wouldn’t taint our family name.” Remi stormed out of the little apartment his parents lived in, livid with his father for having such an anthropocentric outlook on life. His father called after him, “Remigius! Remigius! Get back here right this instant!”

Remi ran to the end of the street his parents lived on, then stopped suddenly. “This is stupid,” he thought to himself. He knew he wasn’t truly mad at his father; he was angry with himself. He knew his father was only looking out for his best interests and would probably concede to giving him his blessing if he hadn’t sprung up out of the blue and told his parents he was marrying a robot. Heck, he hadn’t even told them he was dating one yet.

He thought of going back to the apartment to apologize, but decided against it. There was a reason he was marrying so suddenly after only dating the girl he loved for a few short months. Remi began a brisk walk to her work, passing people walking mechanical dogs on leashes. It was almost ridiculous; everyone knows a robot dog won’t run away. Memories of his grandfather’s stories about organic dogs flooded back. Stories about before pets were widely considered worthless and people started adopting mechanical pets. Robot pets are more useful, more loving, and can live as long as their owner does. Robots, if well taken care of, can live indefinitely. However, in order to keep populations steady, there are strict laws in which all pet robots must be dismantled after their owner dies. Humanoid robots can only live to 100 years old or, if they are married to a human, as long as their human spouse. Whichever comes later.

Remi sped walked three miles to the little café on Main Street where his fiancé worked. He burst through the door, not caring who would hear, and shouted to the entire place, loud enough for everyone in the café to hear, “Fina! We’re going to elope today! Meet me in City Hall as soon as your shift is over!” With that, he quickly walked out, the only sound coming from the little bell connected to door.

Inside the café, Fina was shocked, abhorred, and excited. However, being a robot, she couldn’t handle mixed emotions. She knew there wasn’t much time, they had to get married soon. One week. One week was all the time they had. Fina couldn’t push off the feeling that she was using Remi for the sake of her own survival, but she truly did love him. At least, she felt the artificial equivalent to love. Fina, and robots like her, looked human, acted human, and even had thoughts and emotions similar to humans. Their feelings were synthetic, but worked in almost exactly the same way as human ones did.

As soon as her afternoon shift was over, Fina burst through the café door and into the streets, running towards city hall and Remi. Once in the building, a very old human woman peered at them from inside her booth.

“One marriage please.” said Remi, as if buying a nutrient shake. All other food had been banned the century before.

“Are you both human?” The woman nasally asked.

“I-I’m not.” Fina answered.

The old clerk immediately slammed shut the blind in front of her window, hiding herself from view. The couple pounded on the window, but were only greeted with silent, white plastic. There were no other clerks in the whole building, damn budget cuts.

“Well that was the rudest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Can we still get married today?” asked Fina, “because, I think…I think they’re going through with the shutdown today. I haven’t been feeling well all day and just now, I…I can’t move my arms.”

There was pure desperation in her voice. They didn’t have long. They were supposed to have a week. Her 100th birthday wasn’t for another week. It was law, strict law, that no robot lives to 100 unless they had a human spouse that was still alive. Remi had to marry the woman he loved in order for her not to die. The control center must have made some sort of critical mistake; they were in the process of shutting her down a week before she was old merchandise. The couple silently chided both the control center’s small one-week error and the chip put in every robot’s head that the center can use to shut them down at any time. It was a wonderful thing for stopping mechanical criminals, but horrible for Fina at the time.

Once the shutdown had started, there was no stopping it. Remi was well aware that even if the control center realized their mistake, there was no way to stop it. Fina, the 99-year-old robot who looked and thought like someone in her late twenties, would be dead within the hour. The man knew what was happening, but all he could hope for was that his fiancé didn’t. He took a deep breath and knew he was still going to marry this girl before her last cog stopped turning.

“Of course! If it’s someone to officiate our wedding, my buddy, Valentine, can do it. If he does the ceremony, I bet he can get the marriage license as well. Once we have that, we’ll send it to the control agency and they’ll stop this whole thing. He used to work at a drive through place, you know, before cars were banned.”

Fina wasn’t stupid. She was a walking computer, after all. Despite her fear and imminent death, she smiled and exclaimed, “He must be ancient!”

“Yeah, he’s like 200 years old! The old geezer’s so rich, he’ll keep paying off doctors and live well past our grandkids.”

The couple ran to an old, millennium style house on Dymphna Avenue. Or rather, Remi ran while carrying Fina on his back because her legs had stopped working shortly after beginning their way there. The man pressed a button next to the door. The doorbell rang out the tune to Ave Maria inside the mansion while the couple waited impatiently. Once the entire hymn had played, an old, friendly looking man answered the door. “Remigius! What a pleasant surprise. And who do we have here?” He looked at Fina.

The woman smiled at him from Remi’s back, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Fina and I’m Remi’s, or uhh, Remigius’ fiancé.” She wasn’t used to calling him by his full name.

The young couple explained that they wished to marry right this instant, right away. Valentine smiled, not commenting on Fina looking like a quadriplegic, “well come on in, I love to see two people so in love. Remigius, why aren’t you having a large wedding? I thought your parents would have wanted that.”

Remi didn’t miss a beat, “my father disapproves of me marrying a robot.”

“Well that’s too bad. Are you sure you want your family to miss your marriage? You only get married one. Well umm, hopefully.” The old man chuckled.

“No sir, we’re ready now if you are.” He knew there was no more time.

Valentine seemed slightly disappointed, but rather than complain, he said something about needing a witness and called in his butler, Blaise. They entered the old man’s living room and began the short ceremony. Remi set Fina on the couch and sat next to her, holding her hands and looking into her synthetic eyes.

“Do you, Remigius Agericus take this robot, Fina Augustine to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

“And do you, Fina Augustine, take this man, Remigius Agericus, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

She almost inaudibly whispered, “I do.”

“Then by the power vested in me by Lord Peter, the president of our United Earth, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the machine.”

Remi closed his eyes and locked organic lips with Fina’s synthetic ones. He pulled away and when he opened his eyes, he saw that the light ceased to glow in his wife’s. He unclasped his left hand from her grip and closed her eyelids, unable to look again at the lifeless eyes of a woman that was never truly alive.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago
Commended by JJJ-thebanisher on 1/18/2017 8:41:18 PM

*Whelp, here it goes...*

Prompt #2

Today makes forty years since that fateful day.

As I traverse the dunes of a nameless desert, beaten into shape by the caresses of war and famine, I am brought headlong into the memories of my past. I can remember the smell of those buildings, thick with the smell of concrete and brick, steel and glass as the rain of old was showered from the heavens. I can recall the very wind wrought from their construction, their very existence enough to send chills down the spines of onlookers young and old. The majesty that defined them was extraordinary. Those scrapers of the sky did just that: pierce the greatness above with a human conviction so strong that only a god would smite them.

And sure enough, the gods came to strike us down, stir evil in the hearts of men such as to destroy the very strength that we aspired to be, that we hoped to maintain.

It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Friday? It’s been so long, but I can’t remember. Years of brown and dust in the eyes weaken a man. They weaken the mind, blur it in colors and sensations beyond what we once knew was possible. Joints of the young popped in momentary pain as I jumped out of bed, ready to awake from peaceful slumber. It was going to be my first day on the job, if I can recall.

I am saddened by this memory as I stumble on a rock, reminding myself that I am no longer as young and spry as I used to be. My vision is blurry from age. My joints ache from what was once called arthritis. My hair is grey, superseding what was once a mound of proud black hair. None of these health conditions would have been acceptable at my former job. They would have dismissed me without a second thought!

That’s right, I remember now. I was supposed to be an up and coming engineer. A young buck rising through the ranks of a competitive and academic world. Even after all these years, I can still remember my dream; I was going to build things that would define civilizations, that would help all people. Looking back on it, perhaps I was too conceited about my own abilities. But nonetheless, it was good to aspire for greatness. I had everything planned. That was just the kind of man I was back then. I would start on that day, and make an impression so profound on my boss that I would instantly be in his favor. I was going to come early and finish late, putting my nose to the grindstone to get recognition and experience. I was going to take the initiative and design whatever I could, no matter how small or large. I was going to change the world, starting from the bottom.

But I never made it to work that day. In fact, nobody did. Not a single one.

As I left what was once my apartment, my castle as a young bachelor, the sky had turned a blood red. Looking back on it now, it was fire. Fire began the catastrophe that was to come. Fire fell from the sky in shapes as large as buildings. But it was better than the sounds, and worse the smells. In that instant, it was almost as though I became deaf from the crackling in the sky, the sounds of sirens that would never reach their destinations, the screams and wails that prevailed as death and destruction reigned supreme. Coming from a broken past in a broken neighborhood, the only smell I recognized was excrement and death. Pungent in the air with enough weight to kill a bull, it encompassed all of the horrible things I escaped in the city from which I had escaped long ago. I remember running for what felt like an eternity. To stop was to give up and die in my vomit. So I ran.

I ran past cars as they crashed headlong, leaving the drivers to die as I ignored them in their either dead or incapacitated states. I’ll never know. I don’t want to know.

I ran past buildings as they crushed families, left only babies alive to be swallowed by the dust and fires.

I ran past stores I once visited with all the security in the world be looted, became killing grounds for those who took advantage of the chaos to act on the basest of desires.

I lost humanity with every step. I could feel my heart in my throat as the weight of my body crushed the souls of many and myself. I left all behind on the road that now ceased to exist. All that mattered was me in that moment.

That was my biggest mistake. We make the biggest mistakes only when we are confident that no such result is possible, that the worst has already occurred. But it was only the beginning for me; the beginning of a life filled with nightmares and regret.

I’ll never forget the girl I left behind. The girl I could have saved. The girl I left to die.

On what could only be the biggest rush of adrenaline I’ve ever had, I managed to escape to the edges of that flaming city, one that mirrored the world as countries burned to the ground in moments. On the edges of that city was a skyscraper that somehow managed to avoid being toppled by the destruction. However, bits of the building’s skeleton had fallen and laid waste to the landscape around it. By the time I had reached this building, the sounds of the city were drowned out by the roar of the flames. I had presumed myself to be the only one alive. I remember being scared out of my wits as that fact was shattered to pieces with the cry of a child. I remember walking into the building, feeling its weight tremble beneath my every step. In a corner of the building was a little girl around the age of nine. She was too mortified to speak, but answered every basic question I could ask. She was mostly unharmed, and anyone who could have been related to her was probably dead. Her body was covered in dust, and because of it she was constantly coughing and wheezing. She also smelled of something I could not place at the time. However, tried as I might, she refused to come with me.

Her parent’s last words were to stay in that corner to hide, to pray and wait for god to take her.

They too, like me, knew that this was probably the end. I said the final prayer that I would ever say in my life with her. I prayed for heaven to take her. I prayed for heaven to take me with her. A couple of minutes after I left the building heaven made its choice. The building collapsed on top of her with a horrible screech, falling in the opposite direction of my path. Heaven answered my prayers, but left me a broken man.

With no more energy to run, I simply walked out of the city, soon reduced to mere rubble. I had no tears. I could no longer hear after that disaster. The roars of life and death robbed me of the music of the earth, the voices of my people.

I no longer wished to live.

But even now, I walk the deserts and ruined cities of this new world. I have for the forty years since. I use my wisdom, my former expertise to save the lives of this new world. I have been cheated, lied to and injured by those who refuse the past. I would too, if I were them.

But I’m not them. Whenever I feel myself slipping, my mind returns to that city, to the girl. My final memory of that awful place was my limping body, aching as it crossed the city limits. On the wind blew a hint of the perfume from the girl who in my own way I had saved. I finally recall that scent.

In her final moments, in the final moments of what were my old life, was the smell of vanilla ice cream.

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

@LeoScales7 Beautiful. I love the imagery, especially with the buildings and fire. When you first mention the girl, I was so excited to find out who she was, and I wasn't disappointed by it. You added bits of the "young bachelor"'s back story, but it wasn't enough that I FELT for him. His family and friends died; how does he feel about that? I was immersed in the story, but there were some things that detracted from that experience. When you say that you're plunged into memory or even mention "memory", it kind of removed me from the vision you had so carefully created. I don't think it's wrong to say that you remember something, but the transition could have been better. The story was a bit passive, but because this scene describes something that happened in the past as a recollection, it's more forgivable. :)

Writing Prompt: Week #3

2 months ago

Duly noted! I was writing this under a time constraint, so I'm sure that reflects in how I managed the man and his past. But otherwise, I'm glad you liked it ^__^!

Writing Prompt: Week #2

one month ago

So not late.

When she sits, she can feel an impulse in her thighs pushing her legs back up. When she rolls her head back, she feels as if her neck would drop it off. When she breathes, there is uneasiness in her gut. She can’t seem to come to a resting point. Her mind has thoughts running through it that she attempts to ignore. She can’t keep her head still. She turns her head to the ceiling, then the ground. To the ceiling again. Out the window. People are walking home, and kids are outside playing. The sun is setting. That’s nice. But she can’t find what she’s waiting for. She turns head to the ceiling again. Then, she turns her head to the clock. The small hand is at the very bottom, faced away from the big hand. Alright, she thought, it’s only six. There’s still a chance.

Bleaker thoughts started to edge their way in. But still, she continued her attempt to ignore them. She distracted herself. She walked to the kitchen and despite the fact she already ate earlier, she decided she was hungry. A small snack, that’s all. She walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a plate. She removed a napkin from on top of it and off the leftover slabs of meat. They were for her father, but he probably wouldn’t be hungry he came back. Not as hungry as she was now. So, she placed the meat in the microwave and started it. As the cold meat cooked, she sat down. She began to think of what she was trying to get her mind off, but she took her mind off of it with her make-believe hunger. She looked at the ham slices as the plate spun as she imagined how hungry she was. She needed to eat. The ham was would be a great snack. She’s been meaning to eat it all day. In fact why didn’t she eat it earlier? The answer came to her. It was his father’s. He saved it for later because he never got the chance. Too busy at work. When he came home he had to attend to his burns all day. But wait! She was thinking about it again. Back to the meat. Burnt meat. Quickly, she stopped the microwave. The timer paused. On the clock, it displayed a time. 7:00

Now she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about it. It was in her head and it wasn’t easy to steer his head from it. She threw out the burnt meat. She didn’t want to think of it then. She decided she could eat another time and left the room. She couldn’t escape the thoughts. Flesh burning. She was fixated on the burnt meat and the idea of burnt flesh. She sat on the bottom step of the staircase and began to breathe heavy. She could smell smoke. It made her doze off and think of smoke, gas, matches. Her weekend activities with her friends had plenty of those. Fun times. Crazy times. Dangerous times. But she reassured herself. That was the past. No more of that; her father pulled her away from those groups and she hadn’t come back. She couldn’t think of herself as one of them. Ever since she left, they got a lot more dangerous. She wasn’t responsible for that. Of course, she realized whether or not she was to blame, there was one man who was responsible for their antics. That man would be at risk. But she decided he’d be fine. Today, the kids would dial down on their antics. They made promises earlier in the day, but today was a Sunday. They had better things to do. After all, it was 8:00. Too late to do anything like that.

But she was done beating around the bush. What else would they be doing now? Studying for Monday’s test? Half of them were future dropouts. Going to church? To burn it down maybe. Sleeping? To acquire all those firecrackers, matches, and kerosene bottles just to sleep at this hour. Those pyromaniacs would be the death of his father. She knew it. He managed to get away from his last shift. She remembered that day. Late at night, the damn phone wouldn’t stop ringing. She wouldn’t have answered if it wasn’t disrupting her studying. Damn, she hated getting that call. She hated the loud noise. She hated the disruption. Most of all, she hated the message. Burns all over. Burnt arms from hands to shoulders. Smoke and soot over his face, tainting his teeth and back tongue. His face a sore baked red. Hearing it was bad enough, but when she saw him for herself, she was scarred to see his scars. The fires burned him, but it burned an image in her head. She knew who was responsible. She stood paralyzed. She stood with tears in her eyes. She stood standing ready to yell. Fight. Kill. A fury came up in her. The very sight of her father made her sore for redemption and revenge. She didn’t how to make I just or who to direct it towards, but she couldn’t help but feel the burning hatred. Over the next couple of days, she couldn’t help but feel an anger she couldn’t suppress. She hated her parents, her friends, the fire department, herself. Whenever she thought of her father tending to his burns, she felt a silent anger. Since then, she managed to calm down, but now it was all coming back to her. She began to boil. Her blood rushed through her face, tickling her skin. She could even smell her own blood in the depths of her nostrils. The warm bloodflow made her very irritable. Every little thing budged her ire, and every little thing was noticed. She was bothered by the color of the walls, the splinters on the steps as she ascended them, her mother’s wailing as she neared her room, and her own footsteps. However, she managed to catch herself. She saw the time and decided she should get ready for bed. She turned on the water in her tub at 9:00.

After her shower, she went to her room. She was somewhat relaxed after, but she still had her mind on the topic. It hit her that her father could very well die tonight. Thinking about that put her in a state of outrage. To prevent herself from acting rash, she calmed down and restrained her anger to her thoughts. So, she continued to think. She thought about the thoughts that bothered her so. She thought about her father’s burns. She thought of the time she spent with the anarchists she used to befriend. She thought of the lawns she burned and about how it was her who inspired the idea to burn houses. She thought of how she didn’t care for the scared faces of her victims as long as it gave her a thrill and her friends a laugh. She thought about all the laughs her friends would have now. She thought of how she regretted it now that she was on the losing side. As her thoughts grasped her, she kept a tight grip on them until she submitted herself to grief. She didn’t even realize the time, 10:00.

Now she could say it. Now she could ignore hope and denial. She could open her mouth and let the words come out. She remembered the faces so clearly. The begging, the screaming, the anger. How she mocked it all because it wasn’t her concern. She forced herself to look back at all that now, ignoring the sharp pain she felt in her heart. Her hair felt like pins on her head. Her face felt like it was eating the flesh on the inside. Her chin was firm. But she moved it. The words came out. My father will die. The words came out smoothly, and they entered her ears just as smoothly. When she realized what she had said and all that lied behind it, she almost broke herself. 11:00.

Her head laid down on her bed as she resisted the flow of tears. Her neck pulsed as she began to sob. The truth was closing in on her, and she would learn every crevice, nook and cranny of it to a fault. Every organ in her was crushed or strained. Her mental pain forced her body to overwork itself. She was about to let herself join her mother in wailing when she was disrupted again. The phone. The damn ringing was so loud, it distracted her even now. She quickly answered it so she could return to what mattered. However, it would happen that this phone call was also of significance. The man on the other side of the line apologized for calling so late. Late? She looked for a clock, but she didn’t have one in her room. She remembered she kept a pillow under a watch while keeping the phone to her ear. The man continued speaking. She lifted the watch. At that moment, it was confirmed. Her grief was official. The little speck of hope she stopped rooting for, moving towards, and asking for was suddenly noticed as it died like a distant star blinking out. However foolish it would’ve been to trust it now, she wished she had held onto it. She didn’t want this grief, but now her sentimental sorrow reflected cold reality. The job was a failure, the kids had their laughs, the fire raged on. Firecrackers could be heard over the line as the man spoke. On the other side, heavy breathing. Midnight. The clock had struck twelve.

I appreciate any criticism. Thanks.