Forums » Creative Corner » Read Thread

Yes! I got these in on time :P

1) Minnieking 2) Romulus 3) WIBN 4) Ford

This week's prompts are as follows;

1) A double agent who goes by two aliases has been assigned by each country to kill his alias on the opposite side.

2) DanLuVisi's Bull Shark. 

3) "In front of me stood the man who stole my life."
(From Orange)

Inform me if you don't wish to be tagged to this anymore. Also tell me if I missed anyone. I'll eventually see it.
@WouldntItBeNice @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 @Gemini4Ever @Bannerlord @Taylor_Boulet @Madhattersdaughter @MrMustachio @firegrill @WizzyCat @Pleb @Saika @Iavatus @Minnieking @Claw2k11 @Nyctophilia @team_raiders_Cowboys @mattc

I won. OH MY GOD I WON! :D

Lol. Pleb.

He shall always be pleb now.

Mostly because it's a running gag now and I'm too lazy to change things.

Lol.

Expect a 1-10k word entry from me this week. Me and Orange made a bet.

Yep. ^-^ Actual points and a certain mod we all love. Not a huge bet because @Orange is too scared of losing points.

Prepare to lose. You both ain't seen nothing yet.

It's only between Orange and Minnie. ;3

Well, I mean, I assumed it was about who'd win.

Lose 10 points if you're not top 3? :P

Well, with Me, Mizal, and Steve...

Prompt 3
The following is a series of journal entries recovered from an old house in the forest. The owner was suspected to be murdered years ago.

-Officer Thomas

Day One
I’m so glad I bought this new home! It’s so much better than that old lousy downtown apartment. I really despise people. As edgy as that sounds, I simply prefer nature. I find this to be especially true when comparing memories of my old, paper thin walls to my lovely forest home and its glory. The home is secluded, with nobody around for miles. I’m glad. I have a large, full kitchenette, a beautiful foyer, a dining room, and a man cave downstairs. Upstairs is my bedroom, a bathroom, and the attic, which I keep locked at all times. Dark places always seem eerie to me. For some reason I fear that if I open the door to the attic, i’ll see a demon face staring back at me. But that’s silly.
-L

Day Two
I’ve been officially living in this house for not even two full days, and I already know this is how I should have been living this whole time. It’s so much easier to garden and take nature walks. Not to mention it’s easier to breath without all the gas guzzling cars of the city. Although, being one with nature has a few setbacks. I always feel watched. But i’m just paranoid, I guess.
-L

Day Three
I had a rather peculiar experience today. I was trying to take a nap, but the strangest sound kept me awake. It sounded like a duck screaming, not that I know what that sounds like exactly. I searched and searched, and eventually discovered it was coming from the floorboards. What I did next is probably going to cost me a lot of George Washington’s. I decided to rip the floorboards out and see what was going on- oddly, I discovered a trapdoor. I wonder why the landlord didn’t tell me about this? I was worried there was an animal or something below, so I opened up the hatch. I nearly had a heart attack at what I saw- there was a clown. No, not a live one, just a stuffed dummy in a clown outfit. At first, I thought it was real. It had what looked like blood on its cheeks… the noise seemed to stop when I opened the hatchet, so I closed it, and the noise remained stopped. What kind of sick person put that there…?
-L

Day Four
I tried emailing the landlord to tell him what happened. He said that he never knew of any trapdoors in the house, or clown dummies. Since this is a very serious event, I believe him, because I could probably sue him if he’s joking with me. I should have studied law better. Anyways, the noise hasn’t returned, but my paranoia has been increasing dramatically. I need to stop being scared.
-L

Day Five
Ever since I saw that clown dummy, i’ve been checking in the shower before I use the bathroom, checking under the bed before I sleep with the lights on, and constantly looking in my closet. I feel so alone, yet as if I have unwanted company.
-L

Day Six
The landlord came over today to check out the trapdoor. He said it was peculiar, and he’d never seen it. He assured me the house was perfectly safe and that no records of killings have been reported anywhere within a fifty mile radius. But i’m still so afraid. For some reason, we couldn’t get the trapdoor open...
-L

Day Seven
I have to face my fears- i’m going to get rid of that clown dummy. I’ll get that trapdoor open no matter what, I know that once that thing is in a dumpster a hundred miles away i’ll feel so much better.
-L

Day Eight
The dummy is gone.
-L

Day Nine
My last entry was very brief. I was too afraid to type anything more… my hands trembled… I was paralyzed. I know i’m safe, maybe the landlord got it out when I wasn’t in the room? Deep down I still feel so afraid.
-L

Day Nine
I opened up the trapdoor again, and discovered that at the bottom there’s an opening. I fit through perfectly. Why did I go down there? See, i’ve decided that I will be a braver person. I know that if I face my fears, i’ll discover that there’s nothing to fear. It’s all just coincidences. Stupid coincidences. After crawling through the small space, I came into a dark room. Was this some type of cellar? It was cold, dark, and damp. I could barely see throughout the room. Looking more closely, I saw that there were dozens of clowns- don’t freak out! Again, they were just dummies, not real. I nearly died of fright, only to be relieved upon realizing they were fake. I actually laughed- I knew being brave would help! This house must have belonged to a puppeteer! Haha! There’s nothing wrong! Nothing to be scared of.
-L

Day Ten
I had the strangest dream last night. I was in my room, about to go to sleep, when an arm suddenly came out from under the bed, then grabbed my leg. It grasped me, yanking me under the bed, until I fell over the edge. What I saw scared me back into reality- the figure. It’s face was so… messed up… until now, I didn’t know true fear.
-L

Day Eleven
Ever since I had that dream, this whole “bravery” thing hasn’t been working out too well for me. I didn’t get any sleep last night after that dream, and I was checking under the bed at least fifty times an hour. I don’t know why, but vivid memories of that clown cellar keep coming back up in my memory. The clowns. The cold stone bricks. The moldy rock. I don’t know what to do. I’m so afraid. Alone…
-L

Day Twelve
I went back to the clown cellar. Big mistake. My fear and paranoia are practically infinite at this point. Every one of the clowns are gone. The room seems noticeably darker and colder…
-L

Day Thirteen
I finally slept last night, for the first time since the dream. I awoke to see a pitch-black hand, the same one from my dream grasping my foot. I pinched myself, thinking it was a dream, but it wasn’t. The hand went under the bed. I instantly checked under there, but there was nothing. I don’t know… am I crazy? I’m terrified.
-L

Day Fourteen
I’m not alone. I’ve been sleeping with a kitchen knife on my nightstand in case I awake to find someone in my room. Maybe i’m just being paranoid. No… fuck that, this isn’t just my paranoia anymore. I need to save myself. It’s me or… it.
-L

Day Fifteen
I keep awakening at night to see demonic faces hovering over me, grinning, crying, laughing. I’m used to it at this point. It’s just my imagination. It’s just dreams.
-L

Day Sixteen
I realize that the reason i’ve been seeing all these things may be that i’m going stir crazy. I’m going to have my friend Harris come over. I’ll feel better with company. I haven’t even thought about looking at the clown cellar since last time. I know i’ll see something I don’t want to.
-L

Day Seventeen
Harris says he got lost- but how? I gave him directions, but he says my house isn’t where I told him. If he didn’t want to come over, he should have just said… haha…
-L

Day Eighteen
I hold the knife right above my heart right now. I’m ready. I need to die. I saw the face in my dreams again, and confronted it. What I saw was worse than Hell itself. In front of me stood the man how stole my life. The thing… it was me. I realize everything wrong with me now- the clowns, they represent my ugliness. I’m ugly. The world has shown me all my flaws. The demons keep hurting me. It hurts. My chest hurts. The demons hurt. They keep hurting me. They’ll kill me if I don’t first. I’m terrified, I don’t want to live. Please understand. Goodbye.
-L

These eighteen journal entries were huge evidence pieces in the murder case. What we thought was suicide was actually not…
The fingerprints on the knife didn’t match that of who was referred to as “L.”
-Officer Thomas

Edit lock. Writing on mobile is tedious. Feedback is much appreciated.. Goodnight.

EDIT: You will realize it says Day Nine twice. This is not a mistake: it was intended that he wrote two in one day.

Just because there are bets involved with Orange and Minnie (please don't divorce over this; MinnieOrange needs you), this is how I will rank. (Basically, repeating what's been said before.) Note: I dunno how Seto will rank. *shrugs*
1. Creative use of prompt
2. Quality writing
3. Enjoyment
4. Length (A small fraction of worth, but I put it in with effort; poems are different though)
Ik Minnie already wrote something. Ik. Let's see if Orange can beat him. ;)

@Seto can you add me to the list? I'm gonna do something this week, gotta think about this first...
:o)

Prompt 1: A double agent who goes by two aliases has been assigned by each country to kill his alias on the opposite side.

-------------------------------------

The collection of files sat on the sleek black desk owned by the large man in the business suit. This man was a leader. A President. A man loved by all under his command. But only those could love him, even though sometimes they didn't. The People's Republic of Korea, or just 'North Korea' as most people put it, was under the leadership of Kim Jong-un. The World saw him as a threat, and a threat he was, at only 33 years old. But lately, Kim Jong-un had been worried. Many assassins from other Countries had attempted to take him out, so Kim Jong-un did his research and discovered an American mercenary who would take any job, and wasn't an expensive man. Ths, Kim Jong-un liked. A man who could protect him AND not require much pay.
Today, Kim Jong-un returns to the Capital after having just seen off the new American President, Donald Trump. IF Kim Jong-un could play his cards right, he could keep President Trump from trying anything stupid against the People's Republic of Korea. His gun for hire had been off in the distance. Having never received word to assassinate President Trump, he did not, but if he were asked to, he'd need to make sure his pay was tripled. Tobias Murth was the best at what he did. He was calm, stoic, and lethal. A real force to be reckoned with. His only competition was a man called Daniel Fletcher. The other was Tobias' equal, and rival, but little did anyone know, that Tobias and Daniel are both the same man, under two separate aliases. Hal Jacobson was his real name, but he'd almost forgotten that the man existed. He'd always been too busy playing the role of two separate guns for hire. Kim Jong-un was returning to the capital, and Tobias could feel his phone buzzing. Quickly pulling it out, he checked it to find that he'd received and e-mail from... President Vladimir Putin. What could Russia possibly want with... wait, this is Daniel's phone he's using now. The mercenary used different voices for his roles. A deep, gruff, emotionless voice for Tobias and a smooth, cold, chilling voice for Daniel. Nobody had ever connected the two, and he was too smart to allow them to trace either of his tiny phones. He pulled out his Toby Phone and immediately contacted Kim Jong-un, informing the North Korean President that he had to take care of business elsewhere, and would return shortly. Kim Jong-un wasn't pleased, but allowed Tobias to do so without question. Like if he said 'no' Toby would have stopped. What a laugh.

Vladimir Putin had a lot on his mind lately. He had made a lot of claims, and many of those had not benefited Soviet Russia in any way. He was trying to stay on President Trump's best side. He needed America as an ally when the time comes. Not like he couldn't crush America if they became an enemy, but it'd be more reassuring to have Americans fighting on his behalf. Putin had sent a few mercenaries in secret to assassinate Kim Jong-un as he continued to grow and become more and more deadly. North Korea hadn't ceased in their bomb tests, and Putin was becoming worried that North Korea may try something bold and deadly. Putin tried to warn the United Nations, and as much as they believed him, they wouldn't take action. This pissed off Putin, but he did his best to keep cool. He'd gathered intel from his spies in North Korea that Kim Jong-un was under the protection of the world renown legendary mercenary, Tobias Murth. Doing some digging, Putin had found the man's rival. Somebody almost exactly like Toby, maybe even (hopefully) more deadly. Daniel Fletcher. The American mercenary was definitely intriguing to Putin, as he had less on him than the Toby fellow. Regardless, Putin immediately set up an appointment with the man to discuss business.
Daniel Fletcher entered the office of President Vladimir Putin. He found the 64-year-old waiting for him on a nice squashy arm chair. "Please, sit." Putin smiled, gesturing to a chair opposite him. Daniel obliged, moving into the chair in a fluid motion. "Pleased to meet you, Daniel Fletcher. I am Vladimir Putin, as you already know." Putin began, extending his hand. Daniel took it and shook, giving the President a nod. Vladimir leaned back into his chair. "I have been worried, as of late. North Korea has been gaining too much power, and becoming more deadly. Kim Jong-un has hired another extremely skilled mercenary like you to protect him. His name is Tobias Murth." Daniel feigned surprise at the mention of his alternate alias. Putin seemed pleased at his reaction, and continued. "I hire you to take out Tobias Murth and Kim Jong-un. I pay you in lots of money." Vladimir Putin continued, and Daniel gave a nod. "How much." He asked coldly, which seemed to throw off Putin, if even only for a second. "One million Ruples." He replied, and Daniel narrowed his eyes. "That's only around 1,800 US dollars." He was pleased. Kim Jong-un paid him 100,000 wons, which only equaled to about 90 US dollars. "Deal." Daniel nodded, extending his hand to Putin, who shook it. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Many would assume Hal had entered a pickle here, but it was simple, really. He pretends to assassinate Tobias Murth, and 'dispose' of his body, then assassinates Kim Jong-un. He gets his Ruples, exchanges them for US money, and continue being a mercenary. It was simple. Now, just to follow through with a plan like this. He continued to go over the plan in his mind. The simple sounding process was easier said than done. Putin may want cold hard evidence of the demise of Tobias Murth. Eventually, however, Hal came to his conclusion. He'd do what he needed to, in order to finish his job. He was being paid, after all. Now, down to work.

-----------------------------------

Sorry it's an incomplete story, but I figured I'd rather leave this on a cliffhanger so as to not give any type of ending and personally, I think it's better without an ending. I leave that to the imagination of all of you who read this.

Edit lock
:o)

S-S-S-Soviet R-R-R-Russia...?

THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT THE SOVIET UNION COLLAPSED LIKE 25 YEARS AGO AND PUTIN IS SO FUCKING CAPITALIST... GRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!

Prompt 3:

One billion: the average amount of heartbeats in every single living being’s lifetime. Humans, with their bountiful two billion – due to their healthcare and general civilisation – offset the average by a few beats of course. But all in all, the beating of your heart, the merciless staccato that accompanies and dictates our every moment, is what connects every living being on this planet. The Ammet is the only exception.

Of course I heard the stories while growing up, I mean, who hasn’t? We’ve all heard tales of his deceptively human appearance, until he sinks his talons into your still beating heart. The screams of his tortured victims that accompany him. The darkness and shadows that surround him, or emanate from him, depending on which stories you believe. The fang he sinks in your bare flesh after he kills you. And his endless trail of corpses that span the whole of human history. The devourer of hearts, immortal and eternal, who sustains his own life by stealing that of others.

The truth is, however, that I never saw him coming. I never heart his footsteps on the sodden pavement, while I hurried through the rain, huddled under my umbrella. I didn’t feel his breath on my neck, while I fumbled with my purse, looking for my car keys. No goosebumps or shivers when I dropped it into a puddle. I only noticed the silence, the sudden absence of an ever-present reverberation, as he laid a gentle hand upon my shoulder, and my heart stopped beating. The last thing I remember, in those precious few moment that were left to me as I lay on the cold, wet pavement, was the thumping of his heart – my heart – as he walked off into the dark night.

I wish I could give you some hope at this point, to offer you some advice to evade (or heck, even beat) him should you ever come face to face with the Ammet. But the simple truth is that there is no escape. If you ever find yourself in the unfortunate situation where he’s after you, you’re doomed. He could stand in front of you right now, his cold, blank eyes locked onto your heart, his sickening grasp just a moment away from your warm body; but you’ll never even notice him, until your heart stops beating.  

 

Lock 

I actually don't know what to do for these, maybe I will wait for next week.

Ah, fuck it, I'll do one.

Prompt 3:

Joe Marowski: A name I'll never forget.

I was a designer at a gaming company, and was up for a promotion. I had many friends, that I hung out and went drinking with. I had the nicest, most beautiful girlfriend in the world, and I was going to ask her to marry me. Things were looking up.

And then he came along.

Joe just got accepted as another designer. Nobody knew where he was from, like he just popped out of thin air. I don't know why my boss even hired a second designer. I suppose it doesn't matter now.

He was tall, above average build, but he was handsome. You don't see these kind of people making games for a living. He was charismatic, too. He got along with everyone pretty well, even me. But the worst part was that he was better at making games than me. Better coding, better modeling, better worldbuilding. This guy was a prodigy.

So about half a year after he signed up, my company had a dinner at a nice restaurant. I can't remember the name, but it was fancy. I took my girlfriend with me as my +1. After the dinner, there was an announcement for promotions. I was ready to stand, but then it happened.

Joe got the promotion.

I had 3 years of experience on the guy. Yet somehow he was promoted to Senior Designer instead of me. I looked over to my girlfriend for support, but she kept staring at Joe. This is when I realized that my life started going downhill.

My friends started distancing themselves from me, until I was essentially no longer part of the group. Replaced by Marowski.

My work was constantly being criticized all of a sudden, always compared to Joe's work. I was called into my boss' office and "let go due to financial issues". Replaced by Marowski.

But I had one glimmer of hope, one shining star in the black void of my life. I had it all planned out. Go to a nice restaurant. Slip the ring into her wine when she wasn't looking. Propose. It was perfect. It was meant to be perfect. But when I came home...

 

Replaced. By. Marowski.

 

Two years later, I was a vengeful man. I'd been stalking Joe for weeks. He'd walk to his job as a Senior Designer. After that, he'd meet with his friends at the local Bar, and drink on Fridays. Then, he'd walk home to his wife using a certain alleyway. Boy, was he surprised when I stood in the way.

I could smell the alcohol on him. But he still managed to look immaculate with his small, piercing eyes that seemed to always be alert. I said his name, and walked closer to him. He just looked puzzled.

"Do I know you?"

 

In front of me stood the man who stole my life.

 

And he didn't even remember who I was.

 

I kept hitting him in the face, over and over and over. The alcohol dimmed his reflexes. It wasn't long before one of his small, piercing eyes swelled up like a ball of cotton. I was about to end his life when I heard "Freeze! Stop right there!" and booked it without even looking at the cop. They never caught me or found out who I was.

Come to think of it, in the countless days I spent stalking him, I never found out who Joe Marowski was before. He was so scared that I was out to get him that he quit his job and moved away with his wife to god knows where. I guess I'll never know. But I still hate him nonetheless.

 

Because if it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe...

I'd been married a long time ago.

Where did you come from? Where did you go?

Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?

Lock

PROMPT:
1) A double agent who goes by two aliases has been assigned by each country to kill his alias on the opposite side.

Was hoping to do 3 as well, but I forgot about it while writing... now I am not sure where to fit it in, oh well.

Feedback is (very) appreciated.

---

A green tent stands proud in the middle of an encampment. Artillery shells can be heard going off in the distance, soldiers with green helmets and dark brown uniforms are running about. A man dressed similarly, but lacking a helmet, and the military grade boots, is walking straight towards the green tent.

His piercing blue eyes are locked straight ahead, his hair is swept to the left side of his face. He is smiling.
The soldiers make sure to avoid getting close to him.

The man reaches the tent, then pushes the flaps aside as he walks inside.

Another man with countless gold pins on his breast, and streaks of grey in his close shaven hair and beard, is talking into a crudely made walkie talkie. "I told you yesterday, get the fucking margarine here already!" Incoherent babbling is heard on the other side. "Just-" The General notices the man, who is standing near the wooden table, which dominates the room. The General clicks the walkie talkie off, then drops it onto the table. It lands in the middle of the map that is stretched out across there. Blue and red lines, and dots, decorate the depicted canyons and towns. "Well, look who it is. The Magna himself!" The General claps slowly, but doesn't look away from the man.

The one called Magna gives him a polite smile and nod. "My friends call me M."
"Well, M, at least you are punctual. Bloodly transports..." He shakes his head. "Anyway, did you get the assignment? Ugh, of course not, that's why you are here and not out-"  A loud explosion interrupts the General. "Lucky bastards..." A soldier with a headset peaks into the tent, he and the General look at each other for a few seconds, then the General shouts. "GET SOME MORE ARTILLERY TO THE FUCKING FRONT!" The soldier disappears back outside, running footsteps can be heard among the muddy ground. "IT IS AN OBVIOUS COURSE OF ACTION!" The General clears his throat. "Sorry about that." He shifts some of the papers on the table, then pulls out a stained, yellow folder. "Here."

M takes the folder, giving the General a small bow as he does. "Thank you, I'll be on my way."
"Yeah, yeah, just get it done." M turns and strides out of the tent, folder clutched under his arm. When he leaves, the General lets out a deep sigh. "Easier to get a fucking assassin than some margarine..." A radio on the table beeps, he turns back to the walkie talkie, picking it up as he clicks a button on the radio.

~

45 Minutes Later

In a canyon, a large array of grey tents are lined up, in the middle of them all is a larger tent, decorated with a black wool trim.

High up on the canyon walls artillery can be heard firing, it is a steady beat. A few explosions interrupt this beat, they echo far off in the distance.
Soldiers in black uniforms and grey helmets are rushing around the camp.

A man dressed in a large, grey coat is striding towards the tent. The cuffs of his coat are a deep black. His dull brown eyes give stabbing looks to the soldiers that rush across his path.
His hair is swept to the right side of his face. He is frowning.

He strides into the tent, not bothering with moving the flaps. Inside is another man, who is wearing a similar grey coat. However, his is decorated with countless gold pins and lacks the black cuffs.

The Administrator smiles, it is a joyless smile. "Ah, Ex Ridens, glad you could make it." The Administrator pulls out a small, silver clock from one of his large pockets. "And on time? Too? Wonderful."
"The Assignment, I have work to do."
The Administrator nods, weakly. "Of course, Ex Ridens." He turns to a small table in the corner of the large tent, he shifts through a large number of yellow folders. Then he withdraws one, upon which, in bright red letters, the name Ex Ridens is spelt out. "Here you go."

He hands the folder to Ex Ridens.

As soon as he has the folder, he turns and strides out the tent. The Administrator calls out behind him. "Good luck..." Ex Ridens doesn't hear him. The Administrator sighs, shaking his head. His smile is gone.

He walks over to another table, upon which are more documents, albeit not in folders. He begins shifting through them.

~

17 Minutes Later

In a dark space, likely a cave, a man dressed in brown, with messy hair, sits on a large, grey coat, which has black cuffs.
A small water puddle is near the man. He is holding two pieces of white paper, nearby are two discarded folders. Both are yellow, but one is stained, while the other is in much better condition.

A white handkerchief is spread on the floor near the man's right hand. On it are two, mostly clear, contacts.
His brown eyes are studying the papers.

A few moments pass.

He sighs, then adjusts his grip on the two papers, so they are covering one another. He tears the two in half. He then drops the remains in the puddle.

He sighs again.

A heavily worn Colt pistol is sitting on the man's right side. On his left, an equally worn Luger pistol sits.

He looks at the one on his right, then he looks at the one on his left.

~

3 Hours & 24 Minutes Later

The battlefield is a massacre. Fog and smoke hang heavy in the air, greatly hindering vision. Broken tanks and trucks emit huge amounts of smoke from the fires burning within their hulls.

The moans of the dying can be heard from all around. Occasionally, embedded artillery shells finally deliver their payload, often followed by a few screams of anguish, but those fade quickly.

Two figures are wrestling, grunting from exhaustion. A man in green with a bloodied face, and another one in grey, who has a large gash on his side.
Each is trying to get a good grip on the Winchester rifle between them.

From the smoke, a shot rings out. It slams into the gun, shattering it.

The two men back away from the explosion, clutching their hands and looking off into the smoke, wide eyed. Another shot rings out.
From the smoke a voice calls out. "I'm hit!"
Both men's eyes widen further.
Suddenly, from the fog rushes forth a man in green. He has bright blue eyes, which catch the dancing fire. One hand is clutching to his stomach, it appears to be covered in blood.
In the other, he is holding a Colt pistol, which he fires back the way he came.

The two man back away further, specially the grey coated one.

Suddenly, the green clad man is gone. More shots are heard, then a sharp gasp.

"Fucker!" It is the same voice as before.
uddenly, rushing from the fog is a grey coated man, his outfit is stained with mud and blood. He is clutching a Luger. His brown eyes absorb the light from the fire.

He fires back into the fog. Then he is gone.

Suddenly a scream is heard, which is silenced. A thud follows.
"It's done, Boss!" A slight pause. "Barrage is incoming!"

Simultaneously, the General and Administrator shout two very different names.
"Magna!"
"Ridens!"

The two exchange a look, then turn and rush away into the fog, away from each other.

~

2 Minutes Later

The General stumbles in the fog, landing among the mud and blood. He props himself to his feet against an overturned truck.

Suddenly, the green dressed man walks into his view. The General shouts. "M! Fuck, it's good to see you."
M smiles and nods. "Yes, General. Also, I got him. Ex Ridens is dead."
"Great... but it was at a high price..."
"Come on General, we need to get out of here." He gestures towards the fog, past the truck.
"Yes... of course, quickly too."
He barely manages to jog, but his pace is consistent. M easily catches up to him, then matches his pace.

"Oh, by the way, General?"
Between pants, the General manages to let out a single word. "What?"
"Could we reclassify my code name to A.K?"
"Wh-" He coughs. "Why!?"
"Well... the enemy leader heard you call me by my code name, I don't want them sending an assassin after me. They would find me easily enough, looking through the documents... they have a lot of spies."
"Fine-" He coughs again. "Let's just get out of here first!"
"Of course General!"

As they run, the General suppresses a smile. A prime target eliminated, all thanks to him.

~

1 Hour & 8 Minutes Later

In the small, private white tent, which sticks out against the countless grey ones, is the Administrator. He has a large bandage wrapped around his chest. He is kneeling against a backpack.

Another man in grey, who has a white bandage around his shoulder, gives a dead serious nod. "You'll just need to rest for a while." He sighs. "I have others to take care of, don't strain yourself."
The Administrator nods. "I won't, thanks."
The medic leaves.

A few seconds later, another man barges into the tent. He is wearing a large grey coat, it is stained with a lot of blood.

The Administrator sits up suddenly. "Ex Ridens You made it!? Does that mean-"
"Yes, he is dead." Ex Ridens drops his head, slightly, then rushes over and kneels beside the Administrator. "I have to talk to you."
The Administrator blinks, then nods. "Of course."
"You called me Ridens, in the field."
A moment passes. "And...-"
"AND! The enemy knows my code name, your record keeping isn't exactly great!" He withdraws the folder he was given earlier, the red letters stare at the Administrator.
His eyes widen. "Shit, I wasn't thinking-"
"WELL THINK NOW! I don't need a bloody assassin coming for me."

A thoughtful silence follows, then the Administrator speaks. "We'll change your code name. How does... Idan sound?"
Ex Ridens, now Idan, nods. "It'll suffice. Farewell." He stands up and strides out the tent.

The Administrator leans back. He smiles, a prime target eliminated, all thanks to him.

lock

 EDIT LOCK O.K. I am going to do prompt #3

          Mary Charleston is one name i will never forget

     It all started when I was 26, I had just moved to a small town with my boyfriend who I was so madly in love with. He felt the same about me. I had an amazing job working as a computer engineer and was determined to get the promotion that my boss was handing out today and I had so many amazing friends that I always hung out with. So you would say that i had an amazing life, right? Well one day that all changed, one of my used to be friends got a job as a computer engineer as well. She was always trying to out do me on everything, when me and some of my co-workers went for a coffee break she was bragging about how good she is about her job and trying to put me down in front of the boss.

That's not how you edit lock a story. THIS is how you edit lock a story.

I mean, assuming you reply to a story, that is. This isn't a story, this is still very much a summary. A story has scenes, and character establishment and development. This has none of those things, it's still an empty synopsis. Don't tell it like you're relaying the information to somebody after the fact. You're talking like you're remembering it and recounting it to someone. A proper story is something told, in-and-out of sequence, as if it was happening in the moment. Describe things as if you were there in the office during the events or whatever are happening to you in that moment.

Take the advice people give you, this is still very, very short for a prompt.

well it wasn't finished yet. 

You clearly meant to edit lock it. That means it's finished. You should tell people it isn't finished also, so they don't actually edit lock it. C'mon, this is easy stuff.

Never post something on a forum if it isn't finished. As soon as you post it, people can read it. If it isn't finished, they will judge you. And on forums like this one, they can also edit lock it. Come on, you have notepad, word, anything. Use it. You could check the word count there, too.

:/ I usually do part of it on here if I can't finish it. I already have too many documents laying around. I would put WIP: Do not Edit Lock on it, but having a separate document is always good. ^_^

For that, you have dropbox or other clouds, mail, or if you want to keep it on CYS, even your notepad. There will always be shitheads who will reply to your post just because they can.

Shitheads will be shitheads. :/ *shrugs*

True, but isn't it easier to just not deal with them? If you use the notepad, you'll have everything saved for when you want to use it and nobody will see your incomplete work.

My notepad has a lot of stuff in it lol. Doesn't matter though. I try to finish it in one sitting.

Before you go and bake a loaf of bread, you need to put in some flour, right. Well, before you go and write a story, you have to put in A LOT of effort. There are a lot of things wrong about this, but I think it is pointless to comment on anything else right now. If you aren't willing to put in effort, you won't get anywhere. Not at writing, not at anywhere else.

I feel like you're the kind of person that hates her mom and dad.

I was wondering that too, but don't think they're the same. That one did understand a story contained actual scenes, sort of. This one meanwhile has a better grasp on grammar and doesn't get defensive in the same way. (Yet.)

So, yes, there may be two separate people failing that badly at these, in different ways. As depressing as that is.

That's a decent intro for a longer story. Clean up the grammar a bit.

Crescent, encouraging people so that they can grow as a person can be lovely, but growth is not what you want when the person is a sentient tumor.

I'm more confused than anything, really. Unless they're just a troll, but that's the boring option.

Regardless, a six sentence intro really does not deserve praise in any circumstance.

Decent = praise? I will remember that for next time.

You're telling blatant lies to the child either way. It's just a matter of degrees.

It's just one misunderstanding about basic storytelling. Is it an enormous misunderstanding about basic storytelling necessities? Yes, yes it is. But it's only one. One that can be cleared up and a decent story may be in the near future. I'd wait until next week when they post a 2-paragraph long summary to truly diagnose whether they're human cancer or just slow on the uptake.

They did the same thing a couple of weeks ago though. I have a two strike policy.

No, they're human cancer.

You've got a story that can turn out to be even better. What I'd recommend doing is 'show don't tell'. Instead of stating outright what is happening or what someone feels etc., you should describe the scenario and allow the reader to infer that information with subtle hints. For example, instead of The children were having fun. you could have Tumbling off the couch, letting out banshee-like screams, the toddlers fell to an imaginary death at the foot of the torn and tattered “cliff”. What I do is replace abstract words that we can't physically experience (such as distress, fear, violence, anger etc.) and replace them with more 'literal' words (such as crying, sweating, pacing, punching, silence etc.). 

I was a double agent going by two aliases. Then one day, I was assigned by each country to kill my alias on the other side.

did I win?

According to the new religion of Mizalism, yes. You won. Fair and square. All praise Lord Mizal!

Byootiful

Tenouttaten

That was good, but it was a bit long. Can you maybe make it less wordy? And try to use words with less than three syllables next time to make it easier to read. Also, can you add pictures?

Jesus, i'll be lucky if mine gets half the ranking this masterpiece gets.

XD

And the winner isssss...Mizal! All hail our new lord and saviour!

Hang on, I'll attempt a real one. But understand I'm braindead and exhausted on week days and have to be asleep in two hours so uh, no promises.

Well, the shark's cute and the retard got my attention, plus this'll give me a chance to try something new, so alright, let's do this.

Control is an interesting thing. To some people it means nothing. Some can drift through life, following the will of others and simply taking what they were served. To other people, control is everything. Control is needed, control is deserved and control taken. They crave control over not only their own fates, but the fates of those around them. They see us all as marionettes, dancing to their tunes as they play with your strings. They toy with you, use you, hurt you. Michael a man like that.

Michael was my first love. My only love, really, unless you count a continuous and ongoing crush on Bradley Cooper. I was young, in my first year of college, new to the whole "scene" of it all. He had short, scruffy black hair and a thick beard, a posh English accent and those eyes. I'd like to tell you his eyes betrayed them, that he had eyes filled with malice or devoid of life and emotion, but he didn't. His eyes were bright green, intelligent yet playful, confident yet daring. I feel into quickly.

From the moment he laid those emerald eyes on me, he had me ensnared. Michael knew everything I wanted, and became it. To the insecure and scared child still terrified of abandoning youth and growing up that I was, he was a bridge from adolescence to the world of adults. To the lonely, unsocial guy at the back of the class that I'd become in this new college where I knew no one, he was a shoulder to cry on, a friend to talk to, a lover to share the bed with. To anyone who believed they had a hole in their very core, he was the key to filing it and becoming whole once more. To the person with nothing, he was my everything.

The night went by quickly. His charm, no doubt accentuated by his smooth tone, managed to calm my ever nerve and draw me in. Shots of strange, delicious liquids stole my inhibitions. Every word he said was carefully calculated as those eyes told him everything about me and he deduced who I was from my every action.

The first night was passion incarnate. I wasn't left wanting. Waking up next to him, I felt a way I had never felt before, a joy throughout my entire being. I was so happy with him. I loved him more than anything I had before, more than my asshole, bigoted parents, more than my shitty friends who never talked to me, far more than I ever loved myself. He was everything.

The first two years were bliss. I continued to study and work, but Michael was always there. He changed me, slowly but without pause or restraint. He knew myself far more than I did. The words that he used to make me fall in love were now used to stab at my faults, to hurt me where he knew he could, to make me change to better suit him. They were small, at first. A pair of shoes tossed for being too "gauche", a haircut to "bring out my facial features". Simple things like that.

After a small and simple marriage, the harder changes came. I abandoned my few hobbies to make more time for him. I stopped hanging out with the very few friends I had accumulated, stopped doing things I enjoyed. Michael had once been the only thing I was happy about, and that was a position he was unwilling to lose.

I remember the first time I truly questioned our relationship. Michael walked into our apartment, those bright eyes filled with exhaustion. I was there, cleaning off the counter after popping in a shitty frozen meal into the microwave.

"Uh, what a day," he said. "What's for dinner?"

"Frozen stew," I answered.

"Perfect. Alright, phone swap," he said.

Phone swap, what had started as a fun game done in a game of drunken dares where he and I swapped phones and read are last five messages, now a hellish game of inquiry. I handed him my phone. He didn't even bother to offer me his, and I as always offered no complaint. He flicked through it, those bright eyes scanning my messages.

"Who's Ashton?" he asked, his eyes flickering up.

For a moment, I felt nervous, but that passed. I hadn't done anything wrong, I hadn't broken his rules, right?

"My brother, remember? Little Ash," I replied.

"Oh yeah," Michael said. "I thought we agreed you'd stop talking to him. He doesn't accept you."

Those were the games Michael played. When Michael decided something, that was 'us'. When my brother objected to my relationship with Michael because he didn't like him, that was him not accepting 'me'. 

"Yeah, but my dad's in a home now, so we need to talk about selling the family house," I said.

"We don't need their money," Michael said, gently kissing me on the cheek, his thick beard brushing softly against my skin. "You have me, and I'm earning enough for the both of us, plus the extra income from your job."

"I'm pretty sure I'm earning more than you, Michael," I smiled. "It's hardly extra income, but you're..."

"Really?" Michael interrupted, suddenly annoyed.

"What?" I asked, innocently.

"I'm after a long day of work, I find at you breaking our agreement not to talk to that asshole brother of yours and then you start shitting on me because I'm not earning big! I've told you, you work a few years doing the shitty hours at the firm, then you start earning big!"

"I didn't break our agreement, Michael, you just suggested I didn't talk to him, but...!"

"For fuck's sake, will you stop your bitching?" Michael yelled.

"My bitching! I didn't do a fucking thing!" I yelled. "I've had just a...!"

Then I was on the ground. I was hurt, sure, but I was much more confused than anything else. Had he hit me? No, no that didn't make sense. He loved me, he'd never hit me. The pain in my jaw and his sneering face looking down at me, those bright eyes now filled with hate and malice.

"Shut up!" he roared. "Can't you just do what I say just one fucking time?!"

I couldn't find words, I only gently nodded, scarred and confused. Michael grabbed his keys and wallet and stormed off after that, leaving me there.

I wanted to leave then, but it was a stupid thought. Leave and go where? A domestic violence shelter? They'd sure as hell never let me in. My friends that I had abandoned, my family that either hated me or lived states away?

Where to live was a minor issue, though. The biggest one was that I still loved him. As I wiped my own blood from the hard wood floor with a rag, I justified what he did. He had been working so hard this weekend, and I hadn't failed to support him. I convinced myself I deserved the hit, and that if anything he was kind not to leave me because I was emotionally unresponsive and not nearly grateful enough to have such a perfect man. All he needed to do was show up with roses and apologies the next day, which he did, and I was his once again.

That was the first time, and far from the last. The last time was after a night of drinks with work colleagues. Last night, in particularly. I walked with him back to our apartment, stumbling up the staircase. 

"God, I'm exhausted. Sorry if I drank a bit too much, I got carried away with it," I admitted.

"You were an embarrassment," Michael said.

"No I wasn't, I just had a few drinks," I complained.

"Don't fucking argue," Michael said.

"It wasn't my fault!" I snapped, suddenly angry. "Maybe if you let me go out once in a while I wouldn't go overboard."

I was right. I was a grown man who had to get permission to go out, who had an "allowance" despite earning a full wage, who was a prisoner in his own home. My inhibitions gone, I said what I thought.

"You know, I deserve a lot of more respect in the relationship!" I said. "You don't need to be an asshole because I had a few drinks!"

"Don't call me that!" he yelled, his fist smashing into the side of my head and knocking me against the wall.

It was many things that led to it. A mixture of the alcohol pumping through my veins, of being around people who treated me as an equal and of years of stress and oppression.

I stepped forward and with all the strength I had I hit in. 

Michael's head snapped back as he stumbled into the wall. He stared, those bright green eyes blinking in surprise as he stood there in absolute shock at my actions. Suddenly, his eyes filled with anger.

"How dare you?! After all I've fucking done for you!" he screamed.

With that, he grabbed me. He held me up for a second, snarling, before he pushed me. I stumbled back, hitting the railing of the staircase before I fell, going over the banister and falling down the gap between stairs with a horrified scream. I dropped through the air, and...

I'm awoken by a horrible noise, like a bag inflating and deflating. I try open my eyes, my hazy vision showing me the equipment around my room as I'm reminded the noise is my own breathing. I remember the doctor only hours ago telling me about what happened. He talked for so long, but I only heard him say two words. "Full paralysis." I had screamed and cried and shouted and begged, but only within the confines of my mind and soul; my body lay still. I had lost everything. The doctors seemed to think I had just fallen, saying the "accident" had paralyzed me, saying the "accident" had occurred, "accident", "accident", "accident". It wasn't an accident. It was Michael. I gave him everything I had, and he just spat on it, broke me. 

And that's where I am now. I lie in the bed, as if imprisoned by invisible chains. I've only been here hours at most, but I want to die. This can't be my new life. I have nothing. I can't move, I can't talk, I can't live. I can simply lie here, staring I stare blankly ahead at the blank room, the white walls, the noisy equipment. I try to cry, but even that I'm not allowed do. There's nothing left worth having now. I try to scream, try to break free, to run, to walk, to live, but I can't. The doctors.

Suddenly, a figure steps into the doorway. A gorgeous figure, one that feels me with terror as I try to wince in fear. In front of me stood the man who stole my life. He stared at me, and I could do nothing.

"You're OK," Michael says, in the apology voice I recognize

That smooth voice that once ensnared me now fills me with dread. He takes a few steps forward, crouching down so those eyes can stare directly into mine, so his face is mere milimeters from mine.

"Don't worry, Jack. I won't leave you over this. I'll take care of you," he whispers. "I know you didn't mean what you said last night. I'm still here for you. You'll be mine."

With that, Michael kisses my paralyzed lips gently, and I know he truly has control

You're not that great. No one actually likes your stories, they just think they do. :[

God, you sound like my mother.

:P The last and ninth to last sentences don't have periods. It's bothering me. They're so blatant too.

Yeah, we're also all dead. We're just corpses. We all just think we're alive.

Oh yeah, edit lock, not that it means much.

This has potential to be really good. 

Although you've tried to do a narrated introduction, you've made the mistake of writing exposition that isn't integrated into the actual story, which risks disengagement from the reader. The pacing begins slow, so I expected a story that was more or less a reflection from the narrator. Instead, it isn't such a piece which suddenly makes it clear that the first seven paragraphs are actually clunky exposition. I believe that what you've written would be better off just heading straight into the scenario, while letting readers explore the tension between the two characters by clueing them into their relationship. If they're married show a wedding photo. If they were happily married, have them be happy in said photos. You actually do this to an extent after the exposition, so when I skipped the first seven paragraphs (and reread from: I remembered the first time...) I didn't miss out on much. The little details that I did miss could easily be written in cleverly or subtly. That doesn't mean all narrated introductions are just big pieces of exposition, they fit well in reflective pieces such as Tobias Wolff's Powder.

 

TL;DR, the first seven paragraphs were detrimental to the story by setting false expectations and being exposition that needed to be handled in a way that suits what you're writing. (Actually just read what I've written or you won't get it lol)

 

This is quality feedback but you really shouldn't have bothered. Steve just types words as a reflex action and is beyond petty mortal concerns.

Also, I'm pretty sure you don't yet have the community presence or forum cred where he would even notice you enough to bother to explain why his work is perfect and you're incorrect.

That's fine, I like exercising my noggin a little from time to time.

Is it just me, or did I only find out 3/4 through this that the main character was gay?!

The phrasing of that is gibberish, although I can just about understand the sentiment.

I was sitting in my chambers, destroying various incriminating documents, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a piece of paper being slipped under my door. I got up from my tiny writing desk and hurriedly swooped to the paper, picked it up and read the sloppy handwriting.

"Queen is in one of her moods. She's also calling for you. Don't die. -Helen"

Helen! Thank the gods for my only friend warning me of- oh no. The queen was well known for what we simply call, "her moods." A better substitute would be, "fits of childish rage in which she makes impossible demands and often calls for the executions of people over frivolous matters." Now she was summoning me while in one of these moods? I thanked Helen silently for warning me as I continued destroying as many documents as I could. No way was I letting anyone get his or her mitts on these while I was up for execution. Knowing the queen, she would make my execution much, MUCH worse if she found those papers.

I began sweating profusely while a thousand questions flooded my mind. Had she found me out? Did she know everything? How did she find out? Who had betrayed me? How had they found out? Just as I was considering suicide in order to escape one of Queen Clara’s brutal executions, a knock came at my chamber door. An unfamiliar voice, undoubtedly belonging to a guard, called out roughly, “her majesty, Queen Clara, the sovereign ruler of our glorious Lux Kingdom requires an audience with you.”

I thanked the gods for the door separating the guard and I so that he couldn’t see me roll my eyes. The queen demanded everyone call her, “her majesty, Queen Clara, the sovereign ruler of our glorious Lux Kingdom.” In fact, if she were in one of her moods, she’d execute anyone who called her otherwise, except me of course. One can practically get away with murder when they’re the court jester.

I muttered under my breath, “it’s a good thing she pays well, or that stupid little girl wouldn’t get anything out of me.”

My door began violently shaking as the guard tried to open it, “open up, you fool.”

“You really need to develop patience, immediately.”

The guard sighed loudly, “is that your idea of a joke? If you were my fool, I’d fire you.”

I smirked while I stuffed any and all incriminating documents in my chamber down the front of my pants. At least bad jokes could buy me a little time. Lucky for me, I lived in the only non-royal chamber that had a locking door, and man had it come in handy.

I called back to the guard, “what a hothead! That temper will get you burned one day.”

The guard groaned, but before he could say anything more, I stepped out of my chamber with a large, innocent looking grin. The guard stared at me with light eyes and blonde hair. He seemed unimpressed to say the least. At least that was what I assumed while he dragged me down to the throne room. Once inside, he kicked in my knees, forcing me to bow. I thought for a moment how rude that was, I had already planned a hilarious mocking bow. It was going to be great! Ugh, guards, right?

The guard bowed, practically to the floor, “your majesty, Queen Clara, the sovereign ruler of our glorious Lux Kingdom, here is your fool, as requested.”

A high pitched voice, which sounded more like a dog whining than an actual human voice sounded out, “leave, Abner."

“Y-yes, my liege,” the guard scuttled away.

I looked up at the queen and tried not to laugh, as I did every time I saw her. She sat on her throne in in an over-sized pink gown, her blonde hair down to her knees. Her legs weren’t even long enough for her feet to reach the marble floor. Then again, Queen Clara was only twelve years old, so it really was no surprise she couldn’t reach.

“Why are you laughing?!” the queen snapped at me.

“I’m laughing because even the rats in the sewer are better suited to be queen.”

Her hands gripped the arms of her throne, knuckles as white as snow. Through gritted teeth, she addressed me, “drop the act, Lucien, there’s nobody in here but us. Oh, and take off that stupid hat.”

“Yeah, all right, Clara,” I grabbed the jester’s hat and dragged it off my head, revealing my bright blonde hair.

“We're your queen, infidel! You WILL address us as such!” she pointed at me, her face red.

I was getting really tired of that child’s anger management issues, so I just smirked and replied, “yeah, okay, Clara.”

Then the spoiled brat began to laugh, a disgusting, throaty laugh so utterly repulsive, it made me want to vomit with its very existence. I find it quite amazing how funny entitled brats find outright refusal to their authority. Moments later, the queen calmed down and addressed me again, “Lucien, we've heard awful news. There is a traitor, somewhere in OUR Luz Kingdom who has been gathering information and selling it to that horrible sham of a king: Colby.” 

She said the name in a slight whisper, as if saying it too loud would cause him to appear. Colby was, of course, the king of the Tenebris Kingdom, also known in these parts as the kingdom we’re on and off at war with. I nodded slowly, knowing full well who the spy was for King Colby.

Clara continued, “we've heard rumors that his name is Dwayne and that he’s been spying on us, taking our information, and selling it to Tenebris Kingdom and King Colby. Lucien, we have to get rid of this Dwayne guy or we're done for. If King Colby knows that we've been planning on attacking from the East…the Luz Kingdom is done for!”

Oh no. Dwayne? She wants Dwayne..? “This can’t be happening,” my mind repeated over and over. I stood in shock, unmoving and unable to think while Clara went on, “you already spy on King Colby for us so maybe try to figure out who this Dwayne is. No wait, not maybe. Our order as her majesty, Queen Clara, the sovereign ruler of the glorious Lux Kingdom is to find this Dwayne spy and KILL HIM!” She seemed almost desperate as tears sprung to her eyes and she whispered, "please."

My head spinned, "how did you learn about this? Who told you? What information do you have about this Dwayne?"

"There was a note on our dresser that said a Tenebris Kingdom spy named Dwayne had been stealing information from us for years and that he's trying to kill us. We don't know who left it and we don't know who Dwayne is but PLEASE, Lucien! You must kill him!" her voice dropped to a whisper, "I'm- we're so scared."

Pathetic. She was absolutely pathetic. Without a word or even a bow, I walked out of the throne room, my head pounding. I didn't even bother to return to my chamber to pack up my things, I just walked out of the palace and through the city, on my way to Tenebris Kingdom. Once out of Lux City, I hopped onto the forest path that led straight to Tenebris City, the capital of Tenebris Kingdom. Surprisingly, it was a relatively short path between the kingdoms and could be traveled at a walking speed in only around four hours. 

I couldn't believe Clara wanted me to kill Dwayne. KILL Dwayne?! No way could I do such a thing. That'd be suicide! For in all truth of the matter, I was Dwayne. My cover was a that of a traveling jester who went kingdom to kingdom, telling my jokes to kings and queens all over the world. Truthfully, I'd only ever been to Lux Kingdom and Tenebris Kingdom, but nobody really knew that, well, aside from Queen Clara and King Colby. My real job was that of a spy, who spied on one kingdom and leaked their secrets to the other. Of course, neither Clara nor Colby knew I was a double crosser. The life of a double agent is to gain everyone's trust, money, and information, while not having to actually put in the work to be trustworthy.

I gritted my teeth as I thought about Clara. Who had let it slip that Dwayne was spying on her? I thanked the gods for my double identity, otherwise my head would've already been on the chopping block. I was Lucien while in the Lux Kingdom and Dwayne while in the Tenebris Kingdom, but what now? If I came back to Lux Kingdom while Dwayne was still alive, Clara would most likely execute me. She'd take it straight as an act of treachery, uncaring for my awkward position. I almost laughed at the absurdity: I was on a mission to kill myself. After a long time of walking and feeling sorry for myself, I came upon the realization that I couldn't just make Dwayne "disappear." Even if I managed to make Dwayne "disappear" and pretended that I killed him, my career would be over. It's impossible to be a double agent with one persona. In fact, it's impossible to be a single agent with one persona. Being a spy means putting on an act, and I had no act without Dwayne.

After a long and emotionally excruciating walk, I arrived at Tenebris Kingdom, completely unsure of what I was going to do. My feet, on the other hand, were confident that I was headed straight towards the palace and so led me there. I watched myself tell a joke to a guard at the gate of the castle and subsequently be allowed in.  I seemed to disconnect from myself as a servant with black hair and dark eyes asked me, "Dwayne? Is that you? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you're here two weeks too early."

I looked at the guard, "perhaps your calendar is two weeks too late. I'm here right on time."

The servant stood there with the expression of a child who had been caught stealing money out of the priest's collection basket. "Y-y-yes, I b-believe you're right, sir. I apologize for any inconvenience."

I almost laughed, "you're bowing down to a fool who's obviously in the wrong? What now? Does the king bow down to you?"

The servant take a sharp intake of breath, "come now, I'll take you to your quarters and let the king know that you're here."

To my dismay, it appeared the king was much more open than I would prefer about how helpful I was to the Tenebris Kingdom. If even a servant would bend backwards for a traveling jester, there's no saying how much Colby had blabber about me. I sighed as I walked into the room the servant led me to. He politely opened the door, "I'm afraid we can't give you your usual quarters, but I do hope this room is up to your high standards."

"I'm a fool, a dumpster is up to my standards."

"Y-yes, of course, sir. My name is Donavon, please call for me if you need anything," with that, Donavon left.

I sat on the tiny bed in my chamber, looking around, I realized that he still gave me a room with only one bed. I smirked, Colby was going to get it for making his staff wait on me so much. A fool is meant to be mocked, not admired. How suspicious everyone must be! I took the incriminating documents out of my pants and looked them over. Among them were battle formations, secret messages, and the names of numerous spies from the Lux Kingdom. I figured if I presented these to Colby and completely screwed over Clara, he'd pay me enough to support the rest of my life and I'd never have to spy again.

A while later, a knock came at the door, "excuse me, Dwayne? The king requested an audience with you."

I opened the door slowly to see Donavon standing there. I held the papers close to my chest, "he requests an audience with me? Then I suppose I should start clapping."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Well if he wants me to be his audience, I should clap, no?"

Donavon showed a smile, but I could see in his eyes that he was completely unamused. Unfortunately, I was a horrible fool. My jokes were probably the worst in the entire Tenebris Kingdom, but that didn't matter. It's not as if being a fool was my real job. I followed Donavon to the throne room, rolling my eyes all the way. If Clara was annoying, I didn't even know what to call Colby.

He sat on a black velvet throne, his dark hair and eyes practically blending into the fabric. King Colby was a large buffoon of a man and I never quite figured out why he kept a fool like me around, when just his face was enough to make anyone laugh. He looked at me, all four of his chins jiggling with the movement. "Dwayne!" he called out with his hefty voice and wide smile, showing his rotten teeth.

I thanked the gods I wasn't standing right by him so I didn't have to smell his undoubtedly disgusting breath. I spoke to him in what I hoped was a voice that wouldn't show my repulsion, "hello, King Colby."

Donavon bowed deeply, then hurriedly left the room. Colby addressed his attendants standing around in the room, "if you wouldn't mind, I would like to speak to my fool privately."

The court cleared until it was only Colby and I. He addressed me, a string of drool escaping from the corner of his mouth, "Dwayne, I'm glad you're here. I wasn't expecting you for a while, but I need you. I received a note on my dresser."

Colby picked up a piece of paper and read it aloud, "King Colby, there is a traitor amongst you. His name is Lucien and he's been selling information to the Lux Kingdom. His ultimate plan is to kill you. Salutations, a friend."

I stood there in numb shock. Who was it? Who found out about me and was playing this joke. I gripped the papers in my hand, these would probably be useless now, Colby thought Lucien wanted to kill him. That's ridiculous, as repulsive as Colby was and as annoying as Clara was, I still wouldn't kill those who give generous payouts for surprisingly easily attainable information. I shook my head at Colby, "are you really going to believe such a message? Someone snuck into your room just to give you a private message. Isn't that a little suspicious?"

King Colby's massive head shook, his chins flapping along. He spoke, "I know it seems suspicious but," 

My heart sped up as he continued, "I must take every threat seriously. This Lucien, whoever he is, may be planning to murder me. I need him stopped! Look, Dwayne, you and I have worked together for years and you've never betrayed me. You're one of the, no wait, you're the only one I can trust with this kind of information. Please, do anything in your power to get rid of this Lucien. I won't be able to sleep at night until I'm sure he's dealt with."

Idiot! These stupid monarchs are so gullible! They seriously believe something some lunatic scribbled on a note and put on their dresser? They should be trying to whoever wrote those notes to death, not me! Sweat trickled down my back as I thought of what was to happen to me. I couldn't turn myself in, that'd be suicide. If I told Colby that Lucien was my undercover identity in the Lux Kingdom, he'd probably start poking around further, trying to find out why the note said what it did. I'd undoubtably be found out. There was no way to keep my job. No way to live at all unless I just ran away. I addressed the king, "King Colby," I bowed, "I'll do everything in my power to find and kill this Lucien."

I hurriedly rushed out of the throne room, dropping the documents I had hoped to receive a pretty penny for. They were useless to me now. I ran out of the castle, past a hundred black-haired, dark-eyed onlookers, out of Tenebris City, and tried my best to get somewhere, anywhere. I ran off the forest path leading to Lux Kingdom and into the dense woods, unsure of what I was running from. Myself? Maybe I'd gone crazy and written notes from my two aliases, bringing the attention to my other persona to the monarchs. Then again, that was unlikely. Last I checked, I was at least mostly sane.

I peered around with my dark eyes and ran my hand through my light hair, trying to find somewhere to sit down and think about what was going on and what to do about it. Just as I was about to pass out on a bed of moss, a female voice rang out, "you're almost as bad at running as you are at jokes."

I turned around, my arms flailing wildly, "who?!" I yelled out. Then, I saw her. She had brown hair and hazel eyes. She looked as though she didn't belong in Lux Kingdom or Tenebris Kingdom. She chuckled at me as I stared at her, "I've always wondered, is your real name Lucien or Dwayne? You don't look as though you're really from either."

I almost cracked a smile as I pushed aside the thousand questions flooding my mind. The answer to her question was that I had learned long ago that standing out is the only way to blend in. I look out of place in both Tenebris and Lux; that's what she was thinking, wasn't it? Nobody expects me to be a spy due to me standing out so much. I'd have to be a horrible spy to stick out like a sore thumb like I do, right? I've actually never been caught or even suspected, well, until now.

I gathered up my courage and asked in a strong voice, "how did you find me?"

"I've been following you since you left  the Tenebris Palace," she stated simply.

"Well, after I gave the King of Tenebris Kingdom and the Queen of Lux Kingdom a small clue, I had to see what happened to their favorite spy and would-be assassin."

The blood froze in my veins, I simply couldn't believe it. In front of me stood the woman who stole my life. She was the one who planted those notes, who made Clara and Colby believe my other alias was out to get them. My hands clenched as blood rushed to my face and my heart seemed to ball up inside me. "WHY?! Why did you do this to me?! My life is over because of you!" 

Without warning, the woman had a knife at my throat, "you're right, your life is over." With that, she plunged the knife into my neck and killed me almost instantly.

Esther looked down at the man she had just killed, blood pouring from his throat. She sighed as she separated his head from the rest of his body. Esther really hated killing and gore, but she knew it had to be done in order to serve the Crepusculum Kingdom.  She whispered the county's motto to herself as she worked, "lux in tenebris lucet, lux in tenebris lucet," she whispered it over and over again. 

Once the head was off, she put it in a sack, careful to make sure there was no blood on the face. She planned to send the head to King Colby, in order to make him think Queen Clara was sending him the head of her spy as a threat. Her biggest regret was that she could only send Lucien/Dwayne's head to only one monarch. She picked up the sack and began walking out of the woods, just a bit more meddling and her Dream could come true: Lux and Tenebris would enter a long and bitter war. She smirked as she thought of Lux and Tenebris, too weak to go on, and completely vulnerable. She laughed as she thought of the great Crepusculum army marching in and taking over both kingdoms.

Edit lock

Should @MinnieKing be worried about his points?

I'm not much. I only bet the ten that I didn't like anyways.

Is internally broken

Obviously you should just go ahead and bet all your points and account because that always results in a big win.

I'm not that stupid.

Nice! I'm always impressed when people manage to cover all three in one story.

I'm not quite sure if first person past tense makes sense with that ending (and the ending was a little unexpected fur an otherwise lighthearted story with a humorous tone) but this was a fun read.

This, sir, deserves first place, which it will have. It's a masterpiece, one of the best prompts in these 15 weeks of prompts. 

Good fucking job, m8.

Hahaha, let's all laugh at this ignorant newb who's never read any of my prompt stories.

Ooh ^_^ I really liked this one!

I apologize for asking this here, but I got a shit ton of notifications from this, including one titled, "Seto's Going To Be Pissed", but didn't manage to see anything. If anyone would like to fill me in on what happened, that'd be wonderful.

Check "Some Retarded derailment" for the beats. Or don't. I wouldn't, it's actually surprisingly boring.

Ooo, right to the heart Steve. That one was fatal. I bend to your will now.

Fuck me, are you still around? Jesus, I guess you really don't care if you're still trying to talk about it.

Uh, yeah. Sure.

Please stop now. The last thing we need is another huge derailment.

Stop being a little twat, both people had stopped talking hours ago.

...And the main issue happened yesterday. I'm telling them to stop now, because it's rather obvious they're trying to start fights with you in the forums.

Ah. Okay! Thanks, Steve!

prompt 3

 

Naples, 1653. The singing of choir boys fills the air, resonating through the congregation hall in perfect harmony. Tenor and bass are sung by the older ones who have already reached maturity, standing at the back to carry the foundation of the music; alto and soprano are deliberately isolated in the front rows, so as to extend their beautiful sordid tones to the rest of the church. All visitors are welcome to attend. All are welcome to listen to the next hour of church hymns taking place before mass.

The church organ strikes a chord and moves onto the next hymn, Adora te Devote. A full repertoire is scheduled for the choir boys, and it will last all morning, taking place between each mass before everyone breaks for lunch. The vocal training of a choir boy is particularly rigorous.

A castrato takes their position at the front. His face is shining as he sings in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, reaching notes that boys of his age should not be able to reach. His father is in the audience, listening to him sing with the rest of the family. There is a sense of pride in his voice, but it difficult to tell whether it is genuine.

His father is the same man who cut him. It is not uncommon for parents to castrate their own children in times of poverty, in the hopes that the boys will become successful castrati. The Church has need of such voices. The Church will provide.

“O memoriale mortis Domini…”

The boy keeps on singing in that same high-pitched voice, staring emptily across the congregation hall into the eyes of the man who ripped his childhood away from him with the single stroke of a knife. A life ended before it could even begin, scarred forever. Nobody directly refers to him as a castrato, of course. Musico is more generally used, and often as a derogatory term. Outside of the Church itself, there is no use for boys like him at all. He will not be admired for his “talent”. He will not be respected.

The castrato has grown considerably since his entry into the choir many years ago. He has matured, but in a different way than other boys. The lack of testosterone prevents his bone-joints from hardening, causing his limbs to grow unnaturally long as well as his own ribs. A greater singing capacity, favoured by all who come to listen.

Sing for us, boy. Sing.

“…visu sim beatus tuae gloriae. Amen.”

His father does not return his gaze, simply listening without ease of expression. An open Bible lies on his lap. The next hymn will be in Latin, not Italian, and few here will understand the words. Lost in translation, you could say. It is not the only thing which has been lost.

Sing. Sing. Sing.

The organ plays its last chord, and the castrato’s beautiful voice cuts out. At the priest’s request, the entire congregation rises from their seats in a shuffling of feet, coming together as one to echo the word which signals the start of mass.

 “Amen.”  

Edit lock.

*Cries sadly happily at number of entries*

(Prompt 1)

It was any normal day, and I had just gotten up at 2 in the morning because my phone was buzzing off the hook. It was Peter Wilford, the Director of the FBI. I immediately picked up the phone. "What do you need Mr. Wilford?" He answered with a vague sentence that made me frantic. "We have a new mission for you. I will see you here in one hour." Shit. I always get nervous whenever anyone gives me a mission because it brings me one step closer to exposing my identity. I am what you can consider the ultimate troll. I work as a double agent for the U.S. to spy on Russia, and vice-versa. This was considered the mission of the century for my homeland, Germany, who want to take control of Western Europe. The only way that they could do this though is by eliminating the two biggest armies in the world, which are the U.S. and Russia that help out at the sound of a bullet. I quickly get ready and hurry down to the FBI headquarters. I come in with a serious look on my face and say, "What's the mission Mr. Wilford?" He hands me a packet and walks away. I open and realize that none of the information is blacked out for me. "Damn. They must really trust me," I think. I open up and read the packet, and my face goes pale. I, Axel Cargoff, disguised as my American alias, Michael Whitport, am assigned to kill my Russian alias, Nikolai Markovsky. Oh Jesus. Just when I think this couldn't get any worse, I get a call from my Russian Director, Arkov Yarmersk, saying that I needed to come down to the Russian headquarters the next day because I had a new mission. Oh God why? I got absolutely no sleep on my flight, and once it landed, I was shaking really hard. I went to the headquarters thinking that I was going to get caught red-handed. I walked in, and they instantly greeted me. "Oh we have great mission for you comrade!" Everybody looks like they are about to blow. The director comes in and says, "Hello Nikolai! Today you kill American!" "OOHRAH!" Everybody chants. The director says "His name is Michael Whitport. He is Democratic scum. You will kill him to honor MOTHER RUSSIA!" Everybody is screaming now. I feel light headed, and I think I'm about to faint. I rush out immediately, troubled by my impossible situation. I panic but then I make a revelation. I figured out the way to solve everybody's problems including mine and complete my missions. It take my M1911, I release the safety, put it up to my temple, and pull the trigger.

I'm starting to notice a pattern in your writing.

That was one of the accounts we were suspecting of being Blackhawke/Azure, actually. Surprised it's apparently not. I guess we'll be getting tales of protagonists blowing their heads off for some time to come.

I have no idea what that means. I left for two months, and then I came back because I wanted to visit this forum again. It's been two months Minnie how the hell do you even remember me?

I assume he just clicked your name, like I did. Other than this one you have exactly three posts in your profile.


After throwing a dead Lillian to the floor, he took out his spare (just in case) Magnum .44. He put the barrel to his temple, and he pulled the trigger.

Here I am now, trying to disvow.
What my head is trying to allow.
My soul and my heart want to know how
I can take my life right now.

It take my M1911, I release the safety, put it up to my temple, and pull the trigger.


I think if you look really hard, you can identify a pattern here too.

I'm curious. If the guy blew his own brains out, how is he telling the story?

Hmm. Either his gun was inexplicably empty (nothing more is said after he pulled the trigger, perhaps the plot twist is that he miraculously survives) or the man himself is a ghost looking back on his final moments before his inevitable demise. Perhaps everything is passing before his eyes, far out of reach, along with first place for the Writing Prompt itself.

Other alternatives: the guy has some dissociative (?) personality disorder in which he is seeing this through the eyes of another...or everything was just a dream.

It really doesn't, or shouldn't matter, because this isn't being presented as like a diary or something that's been written down in universe. Seems of all the flaws to pick out, you brought up something pretty irrelevant.

Same question I had about Orange's story, actually. Though hers was in past tense so it stuck out more. You can get away with it, kind of, if you use present.

Well jeez now I feel bad for not finishing my story, but I kind of lost motivation when the power went out Sunday and after that figured I wouldn't have time.

I still need to do something with the outlines I had for last week and that statue picture from whenever. Guess I'll have plenty of writing exercises in June if I try playing catch up with all the threads I missed.

Nah, mizal. Your lovely 3-or-so sentence piece is gold. 

@Seto No rush if you're busy, but any rough ideas of when we may get a new thread? I've been just kind of holding my breath waiting for June and now that work has let up I'm looking to get back into daily writing again, and these were always so good for inspiration.

I apologize >~< I've been really busy, and as well as that, been going through some personal problems.

Sentinel seems to be doing rather well with writing Prompts so maybe those will help :3

I'm not going to be really active for a few more weeks, until the contract time is out, or until I'm not needed for the job anymore.

It's fine, they're just writing prompts, after all.