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Sorry I'm late today! We have some exciting guest prompts this time. Next prompt will be Wednesday morning.

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

5. You may write fanfiction if your heart desires.

Prompt #1: A case of mistaken identity. (Thanks to Steve.)

Prompt #2: http://orig06.deviantart.net/388f/f/2014/202/e/6/nesti_01_by_pierredroal-d7rllhp.jpg (Thanks to Malk.)

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

Damn you, Malk. Now we'll get a flood of zombie shit.

Haven't looked at the prompt (currently staring pointedly at this text box) but just wanted to say that I plan to contribute as much as I can, and keep tagging me even if I miss a few days in a row. Basically, I only do fun things like writing prompts (and chat rooms, too) if I'm satisfied with my daily productivity, so often times I don't get to them :(

Don't worry, I fully intend to keep tagging both of you. Forever. Once you join this club, there is no quitting.

Prompt #1, 551 words. This one was fun!

What a night! Greg coudn’t believe his luck. Not only had it been an unbelievably sunny September afternoon, but when he arrived at his bachelor suite after work he found a surprise waiting for him on his One Love message center.

Greg,

Yes! Would love to meet you. Short notice - tonight 7pm? Starbucks?

He had danced around the full 800 square feet of his pad in delight. 

Courting online had proved difficult for many months. Greg wasn’t sure, but his hypothesis was that most women these days had preconceived ideas about what constituted a suitable male partner, such as that the job title of lead analytical chemist was theoretically loin-tingling from a professional/financial sense, but far less so after a few flirtatious message exchanges. Thus, dating was all a matter of conjecture, and he reasoned he had landed this Starbucks engagement by only revealing so much in his messages to Shyla.

Will be wearing a blue cardigan. Hope you recognize me from the photos!

And Greg knew he did. As soon as he entered the roasty-smelling establishment, he spied his date right by the counter. She wore a navy blue sweater, and her golden hair (which, to be honest, was his primary motivation for contacting her) was pleated in a neat braid over her right shoulder. Greg, feeling suddenly quite confident, mosied over as suavely as he could. 

“You have gorgeous hair,” was the first thing he said. He cocked his hip out as he set his hand on the table, other hand on his belt. A stance of sexiness, of intrigue. 

Shyla blushed. He loved demure women. “Thank you.” She looked around a little nervously. Greg seized the opportunity to, for once, act as the assertive one. 

“Let me buy your coffee.” He then noticed she already had a cup in front of her, but it had a lid on, so far all he knew she might have finished it already and was thirsy for a second one. He loved caffeinated women. 

Shyla glanced briefly at her cup, then back at him. “Well, you don’t have to do that -“ Greg sat down at her table, instantly prepared with a good line, a very good line. 

“A gentleman knows what he does and does not need to do,” he began, smiling with ease, showing many teeth, “and yet does so anyway.” He leaned forward, placing one of his hands near Shyla’s on the tabletop. “Your eyes invite me to buy you another coffee. Please, it would break my heart to meet you without the opportunity to share in a drink."

Shyla blinked, clearly flustered. Maybe this forwardness was unusual to women these days, Greg pondered. But he pressed on, realizing that he may as well play out his extraordinary chivalry before having to answer questions of his unsultry occupation.

“Really, I insist. Shyla, our exchanges have already tugged at my heart in very, very special ways. You’re immaculate. You’re rare. You’re a pumpkin spice latte at the end of a hot, long summer.” Yes, relevant, amazing; Greg praised himself.

Just then Shyla’s eyes flltted towards the door. A blonde women in a sky-blue cardigan walked in and stopped short, looking over at Greg at the table with another woman. There was a moment of confusion. It was very tangible. 

Prompt #1: 485 words until I barely ran out of time. I marked where the cut-off is.

The leaves are falling. They rustle in the trees, but soon they have to fall... to make room for they new buds which come in the spring. I shiver. Maybe the first snow storm of the year is coming. That would be nice. I always liked the site of snow. It's much better than this brown, dying world around me. I don't see how autumn is pretty.

I shift my position on the bench. Why were they made so hard? I don't know who thought it would be a good idea. I don't want to sit here, but I must.

I look behind me. There used to be an old statue there. That was our meeting place, but it was moved to a museum... a temple to the past... like our friendship. Oh well, at least well visit it soon.

I look around for him to arrive. It was supposed to be noon. Now, the little hand is pointing at the one. He was always late... maybe he's late once again. He couldn't have forgotten.

I stand up. I walk back and forth. It's partially to stay warm and partially out of frustration.

"Can I help you?" asks an old man. He was silently sitting there for as long as I. His only movements was feeding the pigeons with a bag-full of bread.
"No," I declare, "I'm just waiting for somebody to arrive."
"Oh, who might that be?"
"An old friend. We went to school together."
"I hope he aged better than-" he pauses to cough, "sorry, it's a cold. Anyway, I hope he aged better than I."
"Oh, he was a handsome devil."
"You two date or anything?"
"No, I had courter. Ended up marrying the guy. Still am."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you... that might be him."

I walk over to a man who looks much like my old friend. The man does not pay attention to me. I ask, "Are you meeting anybody." He just shakes his head and keeps on walking. I blush. I've always been a blusher. My mom said it was my Irish blood.

I head back to the benches slowly. I can't let myself think that he won't show up.

"Not him?" questions to old man.
"Yep."
"When's the last time you saw him?"
"After high school... many years ago... we promised to meet back here in fifty years because we were young and stupid. Well, I remmebered."
"What if he forgot?"
"No, he wouldn't forget."
"What if he died in the war?"

I look at the ground... the dying ground. After a moment, I get myself together again.

"I hope not."
"I hope young men don't have to die early. It's not fair."
I nod.
"Well, a storm is blowing in. I hope it will snow. My friends and I liked playing in the snow when I was a kid. It's a big storm from the looks of it."
******************************************
I look at the storm. It's coming from the West. It is churning far up in the sky.

As I gaze into the enormous mass in the distance, I state, "It's been nice talking with you, but I had better head hope."
"Same here... it's been nice talking to you."

I stand up. I walk away feeling my knees ache with every step. I turn around to say goodbye, but I don't see anybody.

612

Dante stood at the edge of the walls of Reaper Castle, staring out at the oblivion that surrounded him, as mindless zombies marched out to search for survivors as the infamous Death Elementals he had conjured fed on the dying world they were in, knowing that soon their feast would end and they would move on. His once strong frame was now lank, his hair long and white, his beard the same. He wore little more than rags, but it wasn't like there was anyone around to notice. He wore his crown, but only because he felt strangely naked without the familiar weight on his head. He was one of the two only remaining living occupants of Reaper Castle. Hell, he was one of only remaining sentient occupants of the world.

He turned, walking down the Castle steps with a frown. He arrived at the ornate tomb of his daughter, his beautiful little angel. He walked down the steps, his frail body barely able to push open the iron door. There, in a large metal coffin with a small face visor sat, glowing red hot from the coals it say in, lay a tall, black haired Elven mage. The mage looked at him, his burnt, smoldering body only kept alive through Dante's powers. He mouthed the words "Kill me!" over and over again, but Dante just smiled faintly. That bastard had not only taken his daughter on an assassination mission, but destroyed her very soul with his magic, preventing Dante from getting her back. He deserved every bit of it.

That... death sent Dante on a tailwind. He began to behave harsher and harsher after that. He'd massacre prisoners, wipe out any civilians who disagreed. Soon, as he began to wipe out more and more of his people who disagreed with his brutal methods, ironically only causing more to try rise up against him, he found himself wiping out everyone. Enemies. Friends. Living. Sentient undead. Now, it was just him in the world. Just him and the fucking mage.

Dante sighed, walking back to his throne room. He sat in his throne, sighing. The family picture haunted him, standing in direct view of the throne. He stood in it alongside his wife and daughter, two shining beauties. Dante found himself sobbing on his knees. He was alone. Alone in the world entirely. He had no one. He’d give everything for his daughter and wife back. He’d give everything just for someone to love, and who loved him.

Fuck, the loneliness was so bad he’d give it all away just for someone besides that mage. Dante sat back in his throne, as the zombies surrounding him growled. They were hungry, but there was no flesh of the living to sustain them anymore. They would starve and die.

Dante starred at the zombie, looking for any trace of humanity he could find in the monster’s soulless eyes, before another tear welled up in his. All he could see was hunger. Hell, the only reason the creature hadn’t torn him apart and devoured him was because of his powers. Dante thought for a moment, counting the reasons to keep going.

He had decided what to do before he could get to reason one, because there wasn’t a reason. He said a silent prayer of forgiveness to the gods he had scorned and whose temples he had destroyed, hoping to reunite him with his daughter in the next life. But now, it was over. He had a brief moment of joy picturing the mage finally turning to ash as the powers keeping him alive ceased. Dante stared ahead blankly, before ending his control over the zombies.

Managed to do 612 words before the time was up, wrote the stuff I wrote after that in Italics:

Contrary to what most people believe, I do not hate them, I don’t even pity most people whose path I cross. The people that I can’t stand, however, are those that believe they can avoid me indefinitely, or seek to beat me. Even after all these millennia, the hubris of man still manages to astound me sometimes. Surprisingly often, these people also believe they are better than their fellow man for reasons that lie completely beyond their control: the rich, who were born rich and do nothing to earn their wealth, those that seek to oppress other because of differences in their colour of skin; and kings that rule others because they were born into the right family.

Of the latter, one particular monarch keeps returning to my thoughts; even though I last saw him a thousand years ago. Magnus, the king of Nordland in times now long past, used to style himself the ‘immortal’. It may be that he has some touch of madness in him (heck, probably more than a touch), or if his crown was too heavy a weight for him, but he used to boast that man, nor iron, nor death itself could take his throne away from him.

War after war he fought, dissidents he crushed with an iron fist, but the majority of his people loved him for it, a true testament to his charisma. In time, Magnus made his people worship him as a living god, and his people gladly obliged.

But as the years moved on, and Magnus aged, he became less and less willing to suffer the natural fate of man, and he sought to prolong his life by some less than natural means. Priests and shamans, alchemists and diviners would parade around his palace, creating the vilest of concoctions. Everything to prolong the life of their godly monarch.

One day, when Magnus turned 83, an extremely respectable age in his time, I donned my black mantle and presented myself before him. Though I usually don’t show myself to people before they’re well on their way to the afterlife, I decided to teach humanity, and especially Magnus, a lesson. Prostrating myself before him, I introduced myself. He haughtily laughed at me, and told me I had no power over him.

When I held my scythe out in front of me, he cowered slightly, but instead of taking my just due then and there, I spoke to him. I gave him a choice, to follow me into the afterlife, as any mortal has to do; or, and I held out my hourglass, I will grant him eternal life, and forever bar him from the afterlife.

A malicious sliver glinted in his eyes, and he practically tried to grab the hourglass from my hand. I promptly disappeared, leaving the bewildered king behind. Magnus grew even bolder in the initial years after his choice, and his people loved him for it. As the representative of his people, I decided to extend my gift to the whole of his kingdom.

But then famine struck, and pestilence arrived on the kingdom’s shores. Throughout Nordland, the cries of the hungry and the tormented filled the air. But no matter how much people prayed, no matter how much people mutilated each other to rid themselves of the gift of life, I did not walk among them.

The funny thing about pestilence is that is strikes both peasants and kings, and Magnus’ palace was not left untouched. The diviners and the priests, the alchemists and shamans, and all the other quacks in his palace fell to the plague. Only Magnus was left untouched, a gift that his own experiments brought him.

But he was not untouched by the years, and as the crops in the fields, and the people of his kingdom withered away, so too did Magnus suffer under the yoke of ageing. The once godly king, high and mighty on his throne, adored by his people, now was bent and broken, the symbol of Nordland’s ruin and hubris. Around him, his people still gathered, and threw themselves in front of him. Not to worship, or pray; but to curse the fact that he was ever born, and to curse the dark path upon which he led them.

At least, that was when I last visited the kingdom high up north. True to my word, I never took Magnus, nor did I spread my gift amongst his people ever again. I do not hate people, nor do I pity them. I just have a job to do. However, I can’t stand those that believe they can try and beat me.  

I really want to do something for that image prompt but it'll be too late by the time I get home.

Maybe I'll go back this weekend and do something for the ones I missed.