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By popular consensus, we're moving to a M-W-F schedule. There will now be two prompts that you can choose from, or you can do both if you want to write every day.

 

Rules:

1. Pick one of the prompts and write about it for no more than 20 minutes. You can write for longer if you want, but only words written during the 20 minutes count towards your total, so mark where you ran out of time.

2. You will be graded on wordcount and overall coherence. You will not be graded on quality, so write as fast as you can while still producing something that makes sense and would be salvageable with cleanup. It doesn't have to have an ending or form a complete story, but it should at least read like an excerpt from a longer work.

3. When you're done, post your wordcount. Posting your story is optional. We understand it will be terrible.

4. If you're working on a real story and don't have time to write something for a prompt, you can work on your real story instead, but only if you're super lame. Again, you don't have to post an excerpt, only your wordcount. You should really write something for the prompt, though.

5. You may go back and work on previous days if you missed them.

6. You may write fanfiction if your heart desires.

 

Prompt #1: A criminal is scheduled to be executed for an unspeakable crime, but things don't go as planned.

Prompt #2: http://leiraenkai.deviantart.com/art/There-s-still-life-there-216742928

Hello, I expect cool stories. You have until Monday.

@WouldntItBeNice @Steve24833 @JJJ-thebanisher @Seto @bbshark @Bucky @mizal @FrankIevatus  @TheNewIAP

I'll do one of these as a warm-up as soon as I get home. The last couple have been getting neglected what with everyone hissing and spitting at each other and trying to put something together for Bucky's thing at the same time. Now that we're all nice and distraction free, I'm expecting to see these threads picking up again.

They're quick, pressure free fun, practice for overcoming writer's block. I really recommend everyone who hasn't done one if these yet give it a try, and don't be shy about posting your efforts.

Tried to do something with prompt #2, realised that 20 minutes is really not much time to do anything else than vomit random words onto the paper. Still managed to do 611 before the time ran out, though it's definitely not some of my better work: 

---

Carefully, I take the first few wobbly steps on the cracked flagstones. Askew and broken, hidden beneath the tall grass, it takes my mind a few moments to remember where they lie. This whole experience feels strange. I’m still not sure this has been the right choice, to be honest. They haven’t been wrong so far though, though I hate to admit it.

Somewhere behind me, in the distance, the gate comes to a screeching close, having agonised over being made use of after such a long time. When was the last time I walked through there? Six, seven years ago? When I dug up the last few remainders of my life here.

I can’t bear it just yet, don’t want to see it just yet, so I take the path towards the garden. Walk towards the old willow by the pond, sad and solemn as it always has been, and probably always will. Even now the noise of ducks and other fowl fills the air, a cacophony of life. Have they even noticed we’ve been gone, my love? Did they wonder why the bread crumbs stopped coming one day?

My fingers run feebly over the weathered trunk, tracing the carved outline of a heart that now solely exists within my memories. Within a place of warm summers, and endless daylight. A place where young lovers can run away together, and forget about the rest of the world. But now that place, too, is slowly disappearing. Fading away like the carvings on a weathered tree.

Though my heart doesn’t want to, my feet have started walking. An oak tree, long since died, lies broken before me. Beside it, feeble and forgotten, lies a tyre. As the wind rustles the dried leaves, I can hear the sound of children laughing. Of scraped knees, bruised elbows. Can hear the admonitions and veiled laughter of their mother. But then the wind dies down, and the children with it.

My eyes start to water, my heart pounds in my chest. I feel like I can’t breathe. My head is restless, and my feet try to find sound footing, try to find the familiar paths.  I don’t dare to look, I scream (or did I intend to?), but they won’t stop. They won’t stray from the path. I close my eyes, hope that they won’t dare to thread where they can’t see, but still they walk on. I hold my breath, try to occupy my thoughts, until I notice my feet have fallen silent.

The world around me is mute. No wind dares to rattle the trees; no step disturbs the fallen leaves. I can hear breathing. Short, anxious, breath that doesn’t want to be drawn, but is forced to by an unwilling body. I don’t know how long I have been standing here, listening to nothing, seeing nothing, trying, desperately trying, to remember nothing.

But then I feel your hand on my cheek, hear you walking on this familiar path, hear your laugh echoing through the Summer’s garden; and I open my eyes! But you are not here… Instead, there is sunlight, there are trees, an overgrown path, and me, looking at the broken remains of our life.

This is the last time I’ll come here, my love, the last time I’ll speak to you. In a few years’ time, this will all be gone, will be forgotten. I walk through the doorway for the last time, trying to open a door which has long since gone, and listen to the tree that grows on the remains of our live. Listen to the music in its branches, on the spot where you spoke no more.

Farewell my love, I’ll see you again soon. 

Prompt #2, 314 words. But all in 20 minutes!

The kitchen wasn't quite big enough, the mother had always thought. A mere table divided the front room into  halves, the kitchen eating up most of the floor space on the side with the north-facing window. The husband had mounted four large wall shelves in addition to the standing pantry, yet there would never be enough room for all the jam jars and plates of lard and stacks of cast iron pans. The stove used to ting and hum and fill up what little empty space remained with loudness.

The two boys would run from the doorway to the main road just past breakfast, and that's when the mother would attend to the new cobwebs in the corners and perpetual grime swiped across the floor. Eventually her children returned with milk or cloth or paper-wrapped meat, and it would be time to prepare lunch. One meal's worth of cleaning would elapse and on the lucky days, the mother would find a moment to sit in the tall grass encapsulating her home, imagining the time before its construction, when maybe the whole plot was overrun with hairy cat's ear or thistle. What a sight that must have been, she'd think. The past is such a funny place to be.

It wouldn't be long until her husband waded in through the same grass, crooked and perspiring from a day of hard labour, and supper would be summoned. The mother would bustle about the cramped little kitchen, setting out new bread with pickles and sometimes a fine cheese, then call her gentlemen to the table to eat. Often the dormant part of her mind would wander out the little kitchen window, fall to the forest floor, revel again in the history of her land, the land she and her working husband owned rightfully and honestly. Always looking backward through time, never once chewing the idea of tomorrow.

Here, in the land of magic, the wind blows with ferocity. It travels over plains, upturning the crops the farmers have so long worked for. It travels over desert, creating sandstorms of great magnitude. Down the hills, and up mountains, creating a blizzard from the ground. Over the ocean, hurricanes. 
Here, in the land of magic, a man has a friendly relationship with the wind, and here, people fear him. The wind gently caresses him, whispers in his ear, gave him his name. Crenjir. 
The people have him bound and gagged, and are carrying him to the executioners block. For if his mouth were free, he could call upon the wind.
========4 hours ago=====

Trapped. Cornered. Frantically, he looks around, searching for a way out. Guards surround him. At his throat, another one snuck up on him mere moments ago, and put a cloth over his mouth, and holds him in a headlock.
Spots blur his vision, the world darkens.
========5 hours ago=====

Howling, he looks down at his bloody hands, his scarlet soaked shirt, the crimson on the ground, and falls to his knees weeping. It wasn't him. It wasn't him. He repeats it over and over again in his head. Someone possessed him, made him do this. He had to find them. He had to make them pay, for using his own hands to slaughter his family, neighbors, his friends. He'll make them pay.
========Now===========

The wind whispers in his ear, telling him that he belongs to it. That he was deluded to think he was ever an equal. He was merely a pawn. A person to play with.
The wind leaves him with another caress, and tears through the town square, knocking people down, and making them blind. It cradles Crenjir, and takes him away. 
"You belong to me, and you will never leave my embrace. You've broken your promise, and I will never let you go."
========7 years ago=====

A small boy comes out, and dances in the autumn leaves that dance in a flurry in the wind. 
The wind beckons to him, promising him adventures, and great fame. It sings to the well of magic stored in him, and tempts him further away from home, and makes him promise to never let his hands touch the scarlet liquid in men.
 

 

20 minutes exactly. 385 words.

Edit: I am reaaaallly tempted to go back and fix it up. >_< 

Edit 2: Alright, fixed it up. >_< Fixed version below. Didn't alter the original above though.

 

 

Here in the land of magic, the wind blows with ferocity. It travels over plains, upturning the crops the farmers have so long worked for. It travels over desert, creating sandstorms of great magnitude at night. Down the hills, and up mountains, creating a blizzard from the ground. Over the ocean, hurricanes.  Yet some say it has a gentler side. That it grows fond in the presence of heat - a soft breeze on a scorching day. 
Here, in the land of magic, a man has a friendly relationship with the wind, and here, people fear him. The wind that gently caresses him, whispers in his ear, gave him his name ever so long ago. Crenjir Astiseri. Bringer of fire. 
The people have him bound and gagged, carrying him to the executioner's block.
========4 hours ago=====

Trapped. Cornered. Frantically, he looks around, searching for a way out. Guards surround him. At his throat one holds him in a headlock, and has put a cloth over his mouth. As if the wind would listen if he called for it now. As if he even wanted it to know where he was. It would catch him. It would punish him.

Spots blur his vision, the world darkens.
========5 hours ago=====

Howling, he looks down at his bloody hands, his scarlet soaked shirt, the crimson on the ground, and falls to his knees weeping. It wasn't him. It wasn't him. It wasn't him. He repeats it over and over again in his head. Someone possessed him, made him do this. He had to find them. He had to make them pay, for using his own hands to slaughter his family, neighbors, his friends. But no, that'd be more bloodshed. He couldn't do that. No more.
The wind whispers. 
It tells him that he broke his promise. 
It tells him he belongs to it now.
It tells him to run.
========Now===========

The wind gently tugs at him, and he knows he won't reach the executioner's block. He yearns for death, to leave. To flee to a place the wind cannot touch him. It leaves him with another caress, and tears through the town square, knocking people down, and making them blind. It cradles Crenjir. It takes him away. 
It tells him it'll never let him go. 
========17 years ago=====

A small boy comes out, and dances in the autumn leaves that spin in a flurry in the wind. 
The wind beckons to him, promising him adventures, and great fame. It sings to the well of magic stored in him, the fire that burns in his soul, and tempts him further away from home. It makes him promise to never let his hands touch the scarlet liquid in men.

ADMIN EDIT: Fixed formatting (somewhat)

It feels like my own home back when I was a little girl in the villages 

back in the jungles of our country. 

Back in those days, I would close my eyes and count to ten after sitting up in bed. 

I would then walk out past the curtains of my room and into the house. 

Nobody but me and my wild friends.

Saying that I lived in the village probably wouldn’t be right. 

I lived somewhere on the outskirts, 

making concoctions for sick villagers, making money off of that. 

The house bigger than it looked, at least I suppose since 

I was the only one there and had little possessions. 

A few shelves and a table and chair in the living room. 

I had always cooked outside in the patch of dirt behind my house with the few pots I had.

This house isn’t exactly the same—

this one is more overgrown with plants and a tree had fallen through the roof, 

but with some patching up, 

I can still use it. 

I just really wished the rogues hadn’t set fire to the villages in the jungle. 

The council elects had trouble getting soldiers 

to the villages to rid it of the rogues and the fire.

I still remember the fire scorching my skin, the smoke clogging up my throat, 

and the tears bursting from my eyes. 

The only things I cared about—

that I had left in the world—were destroyed. 

No, that’s not entirely true. 

I still have the rose quartz ring my mentor gave me 

and the spellbooks she passed on to me. 

I carry them close always, for I fear that if I lose them, 

I would lose myself and forget my past 

and all the awful things the rogues have done to my family.

The house where I was raised by somehow who wasn’t my parent 

but still loved my like her own nonetheless. 

The house were I cast my first spell and brewed my first potion. 

The house where all the female things first happened, 

and where I had screamed and asked my mentor what was happening to me. 

The house where I was cursed.

The curse. Everything around me would be set ablaze. 

Everyone around me would die. 

That is the curse. So maybe—just maybe—

if I live alone, nobody else would get hurt. 

No more guilt or shame would be added to the load on my shoulders. 

Just me and my loyal cat and my inner witchiness.

This house is perfect. I could live here and nobody would know. 

It’s deep enough in the forest that I could die here and rot 

until the day someone found me and found a corpse. 

Just me and my cat and these stone walls, moss, and ivy. 

Crevices in place of shelves, and a stone table instead of the wood one. 

If this house ever caught on fire, at least it wouldn’t burn.

***

It’s been two years, and I haven’t seen another soul until now.

Words: 506

518 words.

 

The sheriff walks by the cell. He doesn't really want to go by it, but he has to. He says to the man, "Anythin' you need?" He just shakes his head. The poor fool... he never said anything except for those lies. Maybe, he wants to die. The sheriff shakes his head as well. He would too if he did that.

The jailed man walks to the edge of his cell. He stands on his toes to look out the window. Why did they have to put the gallows there? Was it to torment the convicted?

The sheriff steps out onto his porch. It's a hot day today. People wouldn't be standing in the open unless it was time for a hanging. There's a lot of people out today. The sheriff doesn't blame them either.

He hears the clopping of horses' hoofs. A wagon is approaching. The sheriff takes off his hat. So does the rest of the town. The Springfield family is solemn. They used to be happier when she was around. Now, she isn't. Soon, the jailed man won't be either.

The sheriff looks at the clock. It's approaching nine. It's too hot to do it any later. He walks into his building and unlocks the door to the cell. The man holds out his hands. "No," says the sheriff, "I ain't goin' to cuff you." They walk out together in silence. He leads the man to the gallows. A preacher preaches... to whom does he preach... the man about to die or those who will survive? The sheriff figures it would be to whoever hears him. I guess religious folk like to talk to crowds. The sheriff just listens.

Old Man Clark goes up. He always does the hangings. He whispers something in the man's ear, but the sheriff knows what he says. He's asking if the man wants to say anything.

The man nods.

He clears his throat and says, "It ain't me who killed Maria. I didn't force myself on her or harm any hair hair on her p'erty head. I loved her, but y'all don't believe me. It was her old man. That's what happen, but none of you believe me. With the Lord as my witness, I ain't gonna be judged for no murder. Y'all will. You sent an innocent man to die."

Maria's father only shakes his head. It looks as if his emotion is all spent... He's drained like the rest of his family.

Old Man Clark goes to put that black bag on his head. The sheriff supposes it's to signify going to Hell or something. Maybe the man does too because he refuses to wear it.

The rope is placed around the man's neck. Everything goes silent. People stop talking. It's as if sound just stopped working. Even the horses, children, and babies go silent. Even they can sense this dark blanket on this town. Soon, it will end.

The man looks at the town from the gallows and nods. Old Man Clark pulls the lever. The floor drops away. The body falls, but the rope snaps.

The mechanical warrior's innards spill onto the ground, chunks of circuitry and oil dampening the soil below. He looks down as his camera-feed fails and the elf removes his head completely. The hooded creature of the forest kicks his lifeless corpse in the chest, flinging it into the underbrush with the force of the blow. 

The elf whirls a hundred and eighty degrees, narrowly avoiding a spray of .50 calibre  machine gun fire  that destroys the swath of trees behind it. Turned, it fails to notice another mechanical interloper dashing out of the trees. The cloaked woodland protector moves, but barely; and not before they suffer a rib-cracking blow from a steel hammer. 

The rob -- (I was cut off here)

Wow, this was harder than I thought. Looking forward to honing my vomiting skills later. 

@Romulus Vomiting words onto the screen is kind of the point. The idea is to get past the mental blocks and filters and just write without worrying about it being good. 500 words in twenty minutes means 1500 in an hour. That's some very respectable progress that only takes a few minutes to go back and proofread and polish if you're inclined to finish, or if it's part of a larger project.   

473 words. Wound up with a kernal of an idea here I might expand into a larger story at some point.

 

It wasn’t quite yet dawn when they came for her, but Alazne had been up for hours.

“You ready?” the head guard asked brusquely, placing his palm on the scanner panel outside her cell.

She grimaced a bit at that. Like it mattered. “Do I have a choice?”

“Hmph. You already made your choice.”

The guards were in position, weapons drawn, by the time the door slid open. Swiftly two of them moved in to secure her. Alazne wondered if they were afraid of her. No need; after three long nights with no company but her own apprehensions and thoughts, she’d decided she wouldn’t be making any last mad dashes to freedom, no desperate attacks or half-baked plans to escape. Alazne had put her life on the line for the royal family countless times. In any other situation she’d have died defending her planet without hesitation. The fact they were having her killed was beside the point. She had undeniably committed treason, but it was being considered a traitor that was the hardest thing to take. Still, let them think what they would about her; she’d not falter in her loyalty, even now, and she’d die with her dignity intact.

To this effect she allowed her wrists and ankles to be chained without resistance, and was led from the cell, chin held high. Down the long hall, past the row of cells she’d put countless criminals in over the years, past more scanners and a row of security bots, until they reached the exit, opening to a bright courtyard. Momentarily blinded by the sunlight, Alazne blinked her vision clear, looking up at the sky and taking a deep breath. Across the morning sky, a white streak indicating a colony ship had taken off. They had new worlds to see and many distant sunrises before them; it meant nothing to them that for her, this would be her last.

“Alazne Thideyis, you have been charged with sharing security grid codes and force field frequencies with an Undying general, an enemy and would-be conqueror of our world, and have been found guilty of high treason. For this you will now be put to death by force chamber. Have you any last words?”

While the warden spoke--his name was Innan, she’d known him for four years, had dinner with his family over the holidays--Alazne had scanned the crowd of assembled military figures and royals. There was the Queen, the oldest prince, and...hmm. The princess wasn’t present. Of all the royal family, Intisara had always been the one to place the most confidence and trust in Alazne, and during the trial had been the most understanding of her motives. A sympathetic face would’ve been a comfort right now, even if no help at all, but apparently the princess didn’t feel up to watching her execution. Not that the actual moment would be visible to the onlookers from inside the sealed force chamber.

Prompt 1: 907 Words. I'm pretty proud, although I wasn't able to finish the story in that time, so I marked the bits after my time was up with Bold and obviously didn't count towards my word count.

Christopher walked along the corridors of the prison, a smile on his face. Six guards walked alongside him, their massive frames dwarfing Christopher’s skinny frame. Still, they were all the more necessary, as Christopher has attempted to escape more than a dozen times, leading to three inmates being killed, a guard and many injuries.

Christopher Brookes had made countless amazing and unprecedented successes in his fields of Biology and Genetical Engineering, but none of that brought him the recognition of anyone more than a few dozen scientists in the same field as him. No, the name Christopher Brookes was now known worldwide for his other actions. Countless cases of murder, torture and kidnapping. He was known by the entire world. He was detested by billions. His actions intrigued a fascinated world, wondering what could turn a man to such atrocities. One day, he was a bright young man, the next a sociopathic killer. His killing methods ranged from two extremes, whether it be a slow, methodical killing involving chloroform, a scalpel, organ-stealing and a live dissection, or whether it be a brutal mauling, beating and acts of cannibalism and remorse. Christopher especially liked the nicknames that had been bequeathed to him, such as “Dr Jekyll and Hyde”, “Dr Death” and his favourite and the most common, “The Werewolf of Glasgow”.

The group walked along the hallways, as prisoners watched in silence as the doctor passed, still smiling and cheerful.

“Glenn, you know it’s a full moon tonight, don’t you?” the doctor said in his thick, Scottish brogue.

“Don’t talk to him,” one of the guards, Kia, responded.

“I’m on my way out. Don’t I deserve a chat?” Christopher asked.

“You’re a sick freak,” Kia responded.

“Aw, don’t be like that. It wasn’t my fault. The curse of the werewolf courses through me. You’re not carrying anything silver, are you?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kia snarled.

Two guards, Breznov and McCarthy, walked past, their shifts finished. Christopher smiled, raising his shackled hands to wave.

“Brezzy! McCarthy! Are you going home? Lucky bastards. Be glad you won’t be here in a few minutes. The transformation’s nearly upon me.”

“Fuck you,” Breznov said.

“Seriously, you’re lucky. Go home, McCarthy. Fuck your wife twice, one in the pussy and once in the ass, am I right?” Christopher said before laughing. “Brezzy, you should also go fuck someone. Still living with your mum, ya? Try your luck with her.”

Breznov growled, raising his finger.

“Scarred of needles, Brookes? You should be,” he said.

Christopher smiled, and kept working. Minutes later, he was in the chamber, as the guards forced him into the chair, strapping him down. Christopher looked at the needles placed to inject the lethal fluids into him, and laughed.

“By the end of the night, Kia, you’ll wish you were in this chair, wish that needle sucked the life from you and replaced it with poison.”

 A priest entered and stood next to Christopher, ready to give him his last rites.

“I’ll pass on the prayer, Father. My Pa was always a religious man, but I always went more to science and reason,”

Christopher smiled.

“So be it. I’ll pray for your soul, Christopher,” the priest said.

“Father, are you afraid of death?”

“No, my... son,” the priest said, looking disgusted to even be talking to Christopher. So much for professionalism. “God is with me.”

“Glad you think that way. Let’s see if that fearlessness sticks with you,” Christopher said.

“Prepare the injection,” someone said, as Christopher stared at the guards. 

“Oh, I can feel it. The spirit of the wolf is taking over me!” Christopher said. “I... it’s… AH!

Christopher began to scream, smacking his head against the chair as he shuddered, moving and howling like a wild animal. The guards began to back away, looking terrified as Christopher turned from man to beast. Suddenly, Christopher’s howls turned to laughter.

“Haha! You fucking idiots! Did you really think that I was a werewolf? Some kind of man-wolf-monster? You fucking idiots! How would that even work? How would I have the energy to grow muscles and bones and fur and shit? How would any biological creature do that and lose it all again in a few minutes, every month? Haha!”

Christopher continued laughing as the guards regain their composure. They continue preparing for the final injection. Suddenly, the lights went out.

“Fuck!” one of the guards said, immediately raising his gun to point at Christopher’s chest, to make sure he didn’t try anything.

“Oh, deary me,” Christopher says sarcastically, smiling.

Kia raised the radio to his lips, before horrible, mangled screams came out.

“There’s something here! We need to get the fuck out of here! We…!”

The radio cut off. Kia looked at the other guards, before something began smashing on the door to the execution chambers. Kia turned, looking at the door. The heavy, massive steel door began to be dented as something powerful, something inhuman, began to smash against it, desperately trying to get in.

“You look like you’re about to piss yourself, Father. I thought you walked with God?” Christopher asked.

“What the fuck is happening?” Kia asked.

“Werewolves aren’t real. They’re not rational. They’re not creatures of science. That doesn’t mean all monsters aren’t.”

The door began to cave in, its hinges beginning to break.

“My fields are biology and genetic engineering. I teamed up with some other men, true geniuses of the modern day, to create something beautiful. Life. A new predator.”

A clawed hand slowly appeared, through the broken door, grabbing it and beginning to pull the door out of its way.

“We worked. My… vision differed from the others, so once there job was done, so were they. I killed every fucking one of them. I kept working on the beast. It’s funny how much you can tamper with a brain. Remove certain traits, like a will to be free, or empathy, while leaving in human-level intelligence and family-based loyalty. Loyalty to a father. Loyalty to me.”

The door was ripped away, and in its place, a huge, tall creature with black skin that looked like leather covered in a thin layer of mucus. The creature had hands with huge claws that looked like bone-machetes. The creature was… vaguely humanoid, with long spines appearing out of its back. Its eyes were little more than dark, sunken pools filled with darkness, while it mouth was filled with thousands of tiny teeth, each appearing like a small needle sticking out of the creature’s jaw. The creature stared at the guards, growling.

“Aren’t you going to shoot it? It wouldn’t help, but you should at least try,” Christopher asked. “Now, my precious: kill.”

The beast struck. Instantly the priest was beheaded, before a guard was impaled through the stomach. A few seconds later, everyone around Kia was butchered except Christopher. The beast slowly walked towards them, staring at Kia, before cutting through Christopher’s straps quickly with its claws, before Christopher stood.

“I told you, Kia, you’d wish you were in that chair, being injected with poison by the end of the night. Hell, you’ll even wish to be those poor bastards,” he said, motioning to the dead around them. 

Christopher looked down at his watch, smiling.

“Huh. Midnight exactly. And I wasn’t lying, tonight is a full moon. The Werewolf of Glasgow strikes again. Now, my precious: play."

Damn, that's impressive. Felt like a line or two could've been devoted to showing why Kia gets special treatment compared to the other guards, but that's the kind of nitpick I'd have for a story not written at such a blindingly fast speed. 

How much of the plot for these do you think through?

I'm pretty bad at writing short stories so I've been approaching all mine just as a scene from a longer piece, but, those of you managing finished pieces are making me jealous.