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Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | Sable. Yes, that was the word. That was the word that had taken him so long to remember. Why did it matter? Why...why...oh. The night. Sable. Dark and comforting. Sable. Midnight yet? He glanced at his watch. Come and past. Ah well. It was still here, still sable. He should have sent the signal an hour ago, it seems, but it didn't really matter. Now or then, what's the difference? He moved a few feet in the dark and pressed the button they told him to press at midnight. Suddenly, fire, light, noise. Sable no more. Why...? The moon was still there, that was good. Only the guard tower was missing. Noise, sound...popping...yes, gunfire, that's what it's called. But it doesn't matter. The sable is gone, yes. But the moon is still here. The moon. What's the word? Oh, yes, yes, that was it. Radiance. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 300 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | He stretched out his arms; it felt good to be moving again. Bits of dust fell far below him, but it did not bother him, he had slept for a long time, but it was time for him to wake up. He stood up, stretching his leg muscles, his claws gripping the edge with precision, helping him to remain balanced. He gazed out over the city, with its many lights, and slowly unfurled his wings. A last glance back at the bright moon, remembering the last time that he had awoken, a smile crossed his lips. One final shake of his body, and he left from the tower, stretched his mighty wings , and soared out over the city, for a night of fun before he slept once again. | 2 | 0 | 14 | 301 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | His foot slipped on a wet spot and he clasped the upper rung, narrowly catching himself. He forced a tired leg up the next few steps and stopped. The moonlight caught his face and illuminated his body. The wind gusted east, sending his long hair in front of his eyes. The toolbox linked to his body by the sturdy carabineer clanged against the metal steps and echoed against the wind.
He was the silken tassel on the medal of a colossal soldier.
He’d made note to stop and look at the glowing sphere every hundred feet or so to watch it as it rose and shrunk into the sky. He thought about how far away it was. That he could walk on it. That it had gravity.
Two hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles away, moon dust was shifting. And there was no sound.
He returned his focus to the climb. The toolbox was still ringing against the metal bars. And with every exhausted step, another bead of sweat rolled down into his eyes, stinging as he pushed on. Breathing heavily, mouth agape, he ascended up what looked to be the final leg of his journey.
The platform was marked by a mere narrowing of the ladder. When he’d reached it, he threw his arms down onto the caged floor of the platform, squinting and grunting, the clanging now inaudible by the wind.
With a few pulls on the yellow nylon cord, he pulled his toolbox up and set it on the cage. He considered resting, but decided that he didn’t want to be out all night and would rather get it done with.
He checked the carabineer, flicked it to make sure the spring was still working, and then continued up the last sixty feet to the top.
And as he climbed over that top platform, swinging his leg up and balancing himself with his hands. One great final pull brought him up as he high-stepped over the railing.
And opened his toolbox and unlatched the large black rustoleum-coated panel, he felt his point of view drift away from his body. Like a camera zooming out as he worked, silhouetted against the orange pastel moon.
And with one simple connection the current returned.
And the light went on. | 3 | 0 | 14 | 302 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | The binoculars were next to useless.
She yielded them to the ledge, laced her fingers and nested her head inside palms. Beautiful, perhaps, but treacherous, the moon. From her aerie across from the tower, she could see nothing for the glow of the moon.
The radio crackled, buzzed.
*... contact?* it demanded. *Repeat, have you made contact?*
Instead of giving reply, she leaned forward. Lifted the binoculars, instead. The tower, suddenly nearer, rose sharp and stiff. Obstinate. Yet despite narrowed eyes, despite tweaking and fiddling dials, no shadows made themselves more distinct. She saw only the tower: stark and dark.
Treacherous, the moon. It cast feigned shadows. Tricked the eye. Reflected glare into lens and then to iris.
There. There! Movement – behind steel rampart, gray figure, fluid movement. The tower would give up its secrets, she knew, despite the trickster moon. She would wait, then, wait while the shadow darted along pathways, ducked behind railing. The shadow in the tower had its part to play, and she was patient.
The binoculars now hung around her neck. The radio had muttered to life three times, each without answer. The shadow had paused at two, three, now four stations about the dark, stark tower. She had seen all it through half-lidded eyes while the moon stole higher.
It was through the scope that she watched him, now. A sharper image, a closer one; the shadow's long sleeves, the shadow's gray gloves. But nothing more. Nothing to betray the man himself.
Not until he turned away from the console on the tower's catwalk. Not until it seemed he was looking straight back at the woman herself. And the shadow lifted an arm.
That was when she saw the second shape. Above the other. The dull glow gilded his dark clothes, bathing him in gold, his body low and prone and a lean, angry rifle in his grip.
She saw him, though not quickly enough. She lunged, her own rifle tumbling from her grasp with a metallic shock and peal. She threw herself for the trapdoor of the aerie. The radio stammered to life and a tinny voice rattled desperately, *... compromised...!*
She saw him, though not quickly enough. The shot rang loud, and the moonlight puddled on the floor as dark, black blood. And that traitor moon glinted bright and keen off the lenses of her binoculars.
**Word count**: 395 | 1 | 0 | 14 | 303 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | They say that once every 11 years, the moon would glow bright red and a tower would burst out of the ground and into the skies. Known as the ghost of the Christmas shadows, this tower usually wrecked havoc for a few hours and disappeared by dawn. But tonight something unusual occurred. Rather than simply popping out of the ground for all to see, the tower ran around the village and attacked everyone in sight while the moon laughed until it was out of tears. | 2 | 0 | 14 | 304 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | At the cusp of night, all that flourished in thought was the gaze of his wife's eyes, the depths of the ocean he was sailing on, and the breath of time. Hope wasn't gone. Hope was simply the memory he saw, amidst the fogginess of the harbor. As he sailed in on bay, he saw the twinkle of night life in the far distance. But what is there to be comforted when you are in the zone of comfort? The psuedo-excitement of nightlife was nothing he wished of. As he walked to the top of a quiet hill, facing the harbor he was just sailing on, with not a single soul in sight, he lay down, and fell asleep, only to be carried away by the fog. | 2 | 0 | 14 | 305 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | In the middle of a desert, near a small town, the Dark Tower stood tall in the night sky. Almost as black as the backdrop of space it stood against, this was not a sight one would want to go seeing. Moonlight shied away from its inky exterior, as if scared of getting too close. Everyone knew about the tower, yet it was alien in respect to the fact that nobody knew where it came from, or what its purpose was. A faint outline of a door could be traced if you stood close enough. But this door had no lock, no knob, nor anyplace where one would put a key, not that many had tried to open it in the first place. People who spent too much time in close proximity to the tower tended to have terribly bad luck, and eventually most people just took the hint and stayed away.
But this didn't stop little boy David. He'd been reading some books he found running around in the local caves. Books containing tales from times long since past. Books about the tower. They told of a way to open the door, and an easy one at that. All you had to do was promise to give the tower what it wanted, and it would let you in. This item was never specified, but David speculated he'd just ask the tower itself once he got inside. Under cover of darkness he snuck away from his room and ran to the tower. Once there he walked up to it and politely explained his willingness to do whatever it took to see what was inside.
It really is amazing what inhuman noises we humans can create when under the sharp knife of pain.
Three pieces. That was the shape David's body was in when the sheriff found him in the morning. His skin was a ghostly white, his head was void of hair and his eyes were completely dark. It looked almost like an empty socket.
After failing in an attempt to keep down his lunch, the sheriff ran back into town to get the mayor. In his haste, he failed to notice the tower was looking a little different today. The door was open.
The mayor, the sheriff and an armed party of 5 trekked back to the tower, prepared to deal with whatever maimed the boy. Seven people, a good number...a holy number. But it wouldn't be enough. Not even close.
When they finally noticed the door, or lack thereof, the party's reactions were varied. Three tried to scream but couldn't, two almost choked on their own tongues, one fainted and the last said a silent prayer. After much deliberation a decision was made. One man, the god-fearing man who prayed, would go back to town to warn everyone. The rest would go inside. Curiosity can cause even the most clear headed men to make bad decisions. As the sixth man entered, the door shut behind them, leaving them with one path. Up. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 306 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | I was on the balcony watching him down below when she asked me ”Do you ever see letters in things?” He had been standing by the traffic light for about twenty minutes and by my count he had managed to get thirty-two cigarettes from stopped cars.
“I mean, buildings or landscape or whatever? The beach down the road from my Dad’s house, you know the long one, that’s always looked like a J to me.”
I was too high up to hear what he said but I could make out their hands poking through the windows and him performing an exaggerated bow before shuffling back to the pavement.
“There’s a technical name for it, I can’t remember it now...”
Cigarettes were so cheap here too and you could even buy them individually from tobacconists.
She came out and said “Ha! Look! The moon and the Eiffel Tower, it makes a P.”
“Sort of,” I mustered, still far more interested in the little entrepreneur below.
“What are the chances of that though, me bringing up the topic and then the most famous landmark in the city exactly proving my point?”
Was there a quota at which he stopped, when he decided he had enough for the night and could go back to whatever he usually did? Were there certain junctions at certain hours which were the most profitable? Was there a knowledge shared by les SDF of Paris regarding the best spots? Did you come to own a spot by seniority or violence or opportunism?
“Are you ready to go?”
As we walked through the atrium, the guy who had checked us in earlier wished us a lovely evening. We both smiled and thanked him.
“I never know whether or not to say that back to people when they’re at work. It feels like I’m pointing out that they’re toiling away while we’re off to a restaurant.”
At the entrance, she moved right and I went left.
“It’s this way, isn’t it?”
“I know but we went that way earlier. Let’s loop around and see a new bit.”
“Ok,” she grumbled.
When we were quite close I took out my Camels. I fumbled with them awkwardly so I’d still have them open as we passed him. The light turned green and he stepped back off the street. I finally pulled one out, pushed it between my lips and brought the lighter to my face. I tried to predict how he would ask for it, the particular phrase which had worked so well on all those drivers, spoken with the quixotic gruffness that sleeping rough in Paris lends to a voice. And then we were a step in front of him and then we were alongside him and he was just standing there and then we were past him and he hadn’t said a word. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 307 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | I hate Paris. I alway have. But then I met you, and you're in Paris and I love you. I don't hate Paris anymore. Now, I loathe it. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 308 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | The darkest night shone nothing short of melancholy upon my pale skin. I looked to the sky for guidance but not a star was there to guide me. The world had turned its back, as I drifted into a state of unconsciousness. I was never free. But years of pain had brought me to this moment in time. This moment, where I had met my fate tonight. At last, I was home. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 309 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | The broken reflections cry out in frustration, their anger lashing out at me from every side. This place is mine, an empty space I leave filled with my memories too painful to bear. This decrepit construct, long since forgotten by all but the rats that have made it their home, is my sanctuary from the lemmings who wander the streets. Making my ascent to the roof I shimmy along the deserted railing, long since having no stairs attached. I tell myself that I must watch my feet to make sure I do not misplace them; but this lie brings no comfort, I have long since memorized every inch of the abandoned factory. But this is all I can do to keep my eyes from the reflections of the broken windows. The angry man who I can never escape, why does he hate me so? It was never supposed to be this way, this place used to be my fortress, nothing could hurt me here. Maybe that's why it hurts so much; the memories that I've pent up in here are too much for this old building to hold. They have begun to leak and spread and that angry man, he knows why, knows what I've done. Maybe that’s why he hates me so.
The wind gusted in from the west, bringing with it leaves that glisten as they're illuminated by the moon. The cold stone of the roof drains what was the last hint of warmth from my empty and dejected figure. Here I'm free from that inflamed man, but this no longer brings comfort as there is so much else to fear. I rise up and stand on the ledge, why continue on when there is so much to hate in this world? When there is nobody else who understands, who can see the truth for what it is? Leave blow past my eyes and the moon draws my full attention for the first time. The moon fills the entire horizon its beauty overwhelms me. I remember that this is why I put up with it all. The grotesqueness of my life seems so unimportant in comparison with our vast universe. There are limitless possibilities and so much to enjoy without getting caught up in the petty lives of all the sheeple. I breathe as deeply as I can and accept my past that haunts me, it is then that I know longer feel the presence of the angry man in my reflection. I lift my foot to step backwards, to go home, when my foot slips. With no time to react I fall forward; I don’t scream, or panic, I simply fall.
| 1 | 0 | 14 | 310 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | Fuck Mars... I'm going to the moon. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 311 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | [deleted] | 2 | 0 | 14 | 312 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | Nightfall. It came and went with an enigmatic sense of urgency, much like the dark streets only occasionally illuminated by lamps. That darkness was completely ambiguous and so very hostile. A misanthropic Darwinist experiment that favored violent, primeval minds. I walked at a brisk pace through a dank path next to a channel. Paranoia crept up often, but I never faltered, for that may have been my undoing.
12 AM now, and I reached a recently built causeway on the east side that connected two cities together. It was a multi million dollar project, which baffled and angered me. On the cusp of violent crime sat Noxus, a city by the bay. That was where I lived, and it was one of the poorest places in the country. Across from Noxus, separated by a large channel, was Dynuis, a flourishing city which offered extravagant lifestyles for the wealthy and a sense of security that made castle walls seem obsolete.
When I was a child I had dreamed of living in Dynuis, and despite an increasing wealth gap it was now only an attainable 30 kilometers away. The meeting point was supposed to be here at the start of the bridge and my contact was already thirty minutes late, so I made a cell phone call.
He spoke before I could, "Plan's off. I've never seen the streets this empty, something's up. I think the feds might be watching."
I hung up the phone, knowing it wasn't smart to stay on the line. My adrenaline started to pick up, and I moved around to avoid my legs shaking. Any car that passed now seemed suspicious.
Turning around, I saw someone walking in my direction along the street. They wore a hooded sweatshirt and had a shaved, white head. It had undercover cop written all over it, and my grip tightened on the semi automatic pistol in my jacket.
As the man approached, however, he did not yell at me to get on my stomach, but instead relayed a message to me, "We want in on your operation."
I promptly responded while walking away, "I don't know about any operation, fuck off."
The man laughed and said, "You think I'm a cop?"
He pulled out a pistol of his own and shot me multiple times. As I helplessly lay on the cold hard pavement, rapidly dying, I saw the killer get into the passenger seat of my contact's vehicle and peel out. That was it, there was no one around, the night had caught up to me. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 313 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | We stood at the top of that tower ready to jump, the moon shining a bright orange behind us.
“Can you do it?” I asked my son.
“Duh, stupid. I told you I could,” he whined.
I knew he was scared. I planned on pushing him off if he didn’t go himself. I had also been planning for him to do this by himself for a while now; everyone did it. I had jumped plenty of times before him, before he was even born, and I knew how hard it could be. It was extremely high and even more so considering we couldn’t see the ground because it was so dark. Maybe I should have picked a different time, but if he could jump now, he would have no problem jumping later. It’s easier in the daytime, much easier when we can actually see what we’re doing.
“Are you sure? You seem scared of the dark.”
“Yeah I can do it. I can do it…” He was very nervous. I saw him shaking and that last “I can do it” sounded much less like a confirmation and more of an encouragement to himself. I had to do it, I had to push him. I had to push him just as my mother had for me.
“Are you ready?” I asked one last time.
“Yes I can do this.”
“Okay, let’s count to three together.”
“One,” we said in unison.
“Two,” he was quiet
“thr-“ I pushed him before he could even finish saying the number. I heard his screams and knew he was gone. It was scary, but it had to be done. After a second his screams ceased.
“Mom, I did it!”
“I knew you could do it. We all do, it’s only a matter of time. Now come back to the nest so you can eat.”
I spit up his meal and told him to go to sleep. I rustled his feathers and left him to his dreams, happy that he took the nest step toward flying the coop.
| 1 | 0 | 14 | 314 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 14 | 315 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | The glow of the moon bathed her in its warmth... well not its warmth, the moon was never warm and the cool breeze sent chills up her spine. But the red glow made it almost *seem* like it should be warm. The hunters moon it was called... or was it the harvest moon? She shook her head attempting to clear it with the physical motion as if her mind was an ‘Etch A Sketch’.
Another tear trailed down her cheek refocusing her thoughts. No matter what her mind was focused on her feelings were locked on one single fact; you left. The days turned to weeks turned to months and still the tears rolled. It felt like only yesterday that you held her in your arms and yet so much time had passed. She leaned forwards a little, her hands still grasping the rail behind her as she glanced over the edge.
She trembled, shuffling her feet and closed her eyes thinking back to that day, the day you left. An argument, that was the last conversation we’d had and she didn’t even remember what it was about. She shivered. You left in the morning, the same as usual, just another day. You never came back and she’d never forgive you. An accident they’d called it.
Identifying your body, seeing you lay there so still, so pale, so... *lifeless*. She could never forget the feeling and never forgive you for having left her. Through all the months she had never... would never let go, until now.
Her fingers uncurled and she fell forwards, letting go of everything, the hurt the loneliness, the pain. Her tears evaporating as the wind whipped her face, her heart speeding in her chest, her one last thought turned to the moment our eyes met. You’d look beautiful in that dress, your hair tied up, the way you’d smiled at her, she fell for you in an instant. She fell into the dream as her body fell from the sky, to join you again after so long apart. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 316 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who finds Paris' slogan full of shit. "City of Love?" Who are they kidding? I am looking at a homeless man being passed up by every woman, child, businessman, tourist, punk-rocker, and loony. Then again, there is what I would assume to be a young couple looking rather romantic as they suck faces. I'm not quite sure, seeing as they're so close together that they seem to have become one amorphous creature. I guess the slogan of Paris isn't entirely false, but merely incomplete. "City of romantic love?" Yes, I think so. Plus, I'm pretty sure "City of brotherly love" is taken.
I sit and compare the moaning, smooching blob of wriggling flesh to the homeless man. Eventually, I lose interest in the couple and study the vagabond more intensely. He's wearing a pea green coat that may or may not have started that way, with a pair of ripped jeans and holey sneakers. While he looks like any normal hobo, I can't help but think there is something unique about this man standing on the Champs Élysées, palm facing upward. What strikes me odd is that this man, being ignored by all who saunter by, is smiling. Being the curious person I am, I can't help but approach him. "Why is it that no matter how little people care, you are still beaming as if you'd just opened your first Christmas present?"
Without saying a word, he motions for me to follow him. We walk in silence, our footsteps clicking in the still night air to fill the void of sound. He sits me down on a bench near the Eiffel Tower, after our several hour promenade, and startles me by being the first to speak since my quasi-introduction. "Look," he says in an indiscernible accent.
"At what? The tower? I've seen it thousands of times! Why wou-." He cuts me off with a firm shake of his head. I can tell he's frustrated with our language barrier. Eventually, he finds the word he's looking for.
"No....see."
For the first time in years, I look up to the top of the tower and stare intently for several moments.
"Beautiful," he says.
In that instant, staring at the moon rising behind the twisted metal, I know why he smiles. While the people in this city are ugly in their personality and behavior, the world itself is still a beautiful place. I guess I just forgot to look around. | 5 | 0 | 14 | 317 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | They thought that they could go to the moon. "It looks so close!" they all proclaimed. It should be only a week's work away, at most! That week turned into two, into four, into months, years. Still, they carried on, breathless anticipation turned dejected stubbornness. Eventually, as the decades passed, their project was slowly forgotten. Only the eldest members remember it now, the blood and sweat that they poured out for a goal unattainable. It stood there, a silent, towering reminder of their failure. But one young man saw it not as a failure, but as a testament to an older generation's skill and determination. So one night he climbed to the top of the tower, and kindled a flame at the top. It burned for days, and burned so brightly that it rendered the moon behind it nearly invisible. And to every man and woman that had toiled their lives away, to seemingly no end, it reminded them that we do not always need to reach our goals to accomplish great things. | 2 | 0 | 14 | 318 |
Picture Prompt; Write 500 words or less with this
image as the inspiration. | The air is unclean. Unclean in a way that defies belief, straining my imagination and sanity. As I stand on the abandoned streets of Paris the dull ocher light of the moon casts no shadows and provides no comfort. Everywhere in the world, this dust. It clouds the sky and clots on the water. Nothing has escaped it; no corner of our ruined globe avoided the cost of our inspiration, our Hail Mary for human survival.
The dust, of course, isn’t. Not like you would have found clinging to your shelves or balled up under the sofa. It’s niblrs. Nanoscale Infrastructure Builders, engineered to turn a hunk of raw material in space into an oasis. We built them to survive the rigors of the void. Hell, we built them to survive *anything*. We built them to carry spores of life to the Solar System. We built them so that they would build for us. What we didn’t do was build them to come home.
The scientists told us it could have been the result of collisions in the asteroid belt that sent them careening back into our atmosphere. Or maybe they escaped from the labs. But it doesn’t matter. We could not have stopped them, even if we’d known they were here.
There was no panic, at first. I remember reading the articles and listening to the news as new colonies of niblrs and the results of their efforts were discovered all over the world. I was even optimistic; it seemed like maybe the little bastards would actually give us enough food and water to last until the evacuations we’d been planning for decades were begun. It took years for us to realize what was happening, and we couldn’t have stopped it.
We couldn’t stop it. We couldn’t. There were no cutoffs or kill switches in them. They were impervious to nuclear blasts; we never even tried that scheme, hoping instead to learn a way to cleanse them from ourselves so we could head into space. But they’re so tiny, and there’s so many. Of course, a few of the politicians and scientists commandeered the evacuation ships, running like whipped dogs for the “good of humanity”. But they must have known as well as I did that it was futile, they were carrying the niblrs with them. Everyone knew. We watched in shock as the ships left the atmosphere. And then the panic started, but that didn’t matter either.
You see, the scientists designed them to work on an asteroid where resources were scarce and conditions were harsh. When they arrived here, niblrs were presented an all-you-can-eat buffet of rich and diverse resources that fueled exponential growth and multiplication. By the time I watched the last completed escape vehicle launch with it’s useless cargo of infested leaders, the niblrs numbered near a duodecillion, a term I’d never heard before this happened. Now, it’s nearly incalculable, and they block the heat from our sun. We couldn’t stop it. We couldn’t.
| 1 | 0 | 14 | 319 |
[FF] Voice(s) on the radio. | -A: I don't know what I'm going to do without you.
-B: You'll be fine. You already have someone to take care of that for you.
-A: It's not the same, it never has been.
-B: What do you want me to say? I tried to be there for you but I wasn't good enough.
-A: You were. You were too good for me. That's why I was scared, I didn't know what to make of it.
-B: That's not what you told me. Last I heard, the distance was going to be too much, and now you're faced with a similar dilemma.
-A: This is different. Distance isn't the problem, you're the problem.
-B: How dare you say something like that.
-A: I only mean that I can't stop thinking about you.
-B: That's not my fault, that's yours. Whatever is going on beneath that thin skull of yours is the problem.
-A: This isn't what I need right now, I need help. I miss you, and I know I'm going to even more when I leave.
-B: Do you just want me to tell you everything is going to be okay? That I'll miss you just as much? That I'll fly right on over there and comfort you when the lights go off at night? I just...*sigh*...I just can't do that.
-A: No, I just want you to tell me you'll be there for me. I need you to tell me that.
-B: I'm sure Jennifer will be there for you. Don't suck me into this.
-A: I don't want her to be there for me, I want you. That's why I asked you to meet with me, in person. I had to see you while you were coming through, can't you see that?
-B: Yes.
-A: So?
-B: So what? Of course I'll miss you, I'll miss you like I have the past year, but it's not my duty to keep running around after you to make sure you're okay.
-A: I know, I just want things to go back to the way they were.
-B: And how does Jennifer feel about this?
-A: She doesn't.
-B: What do you mean?
-A: She doesn't feel anything because she doesn't know.
-B: About what?
-A: Nothing.
-B: Tell me. About what? About you and me?
-A: Maybe.
-B: Don't be a smartass. You mean to tell me that you never said anything to her about us?
-A: Yes.
-B: Is this a fucking joke? Not a single fucking word?
-A: No, not one.
-B: You're an asshole, you know that? Have fun on your fucking trip. Please refrain from talking to me ever again. Goodbye you jerk off. | 1 | 0 | 8 | 320 |
[FF] Voice(s) on the radio. | J- Dude, you're an asshole
M- Come on, it wasn't that bad man!
J- You shit on his desk! How is that not that bad?
M- Well *I* thought it was hilarious
J- Dude, that's never funny. What if you had a desk, and someone just went and shit on it?
M- Negatory Broseph. Why would I have a desk? I want to be a pilot, pilots don't have desks. They're too cool for desks, they fly FUCKING **PLANES** MAN
J- Okay....so they shit in the cockpit then.
M- Also impossible. My cockpit will be voice activated. Only I can get in.
J- THEN THEY SHIT ON THE WINDOW OF THE PLANE!!
M- Well I'd have to applaud them. The window is about 20 feet off the ground.
J- Fuck...you're useless man.
M- Nuh uh! Im a fucking plane! /Runs off making plane sounds/
J- Wait up! | 2 | 0 | 8 | 321 |
[FF] Voice(s) on the radio. | 1) Darling, why are we here?
2) Do you not remember this place?
1) We've been here before? Why would I bring you here, to this dump of all places?
2) This place, I can't stop thinking about it, it rests in my mind, I walk it my dreams, I can't stop coming back.
1) You sound like you've been obsessing over it.
2) I have, for a while now, but I wanted to show it to you
1) Well, what can I say, its a dump, a part of town that no one wants to live in and everyone wants to get out of.
2) And you did, didn't you my dear, you found means to escape.
1) What do you know of this!!! I've never told you anything!
2) Ha ha, do you not remember me? I recognized you straight away, the day we first met, but I kept quiet, wanted you to realise by yourself, and now it has come to this.
1) You're saying we met before? Here? When?
2) 14 years ago, it was a dark night, a light rain, and I was the girl walking home
1) Oh, I do remember, but you see...
2) 'I see'?!?!? 14 years and all you can say is 'but'?!?!! No apologies, no nothing?!? You monster!! You do what you did and think nothing of it?!!? How do you live wit...
1) I never did tell you what I do for a living did I? How long have we been dating now? Mmm, I would tell you but by now you can feel the effects of my trade.
2) *Gasps*
1) I was rather enjoying our time together, such a pity it has come to this, if only you had kept quiet, I might
have thought that you'd forgotten, still, the cops won't notice one more body in the morning. Before we part my dear, know this..
2).... ...... ... ...
1) The first fuck was the best
2)... .... ..
1) Farewell
2) .. .. | 1 | 0 | 8 | 322 |
[FF] Voice(s) on the radio. | G: I am confused.
H: How can you be possibly confused?
G: By that smudge.
H: What smudge? I do not see a smudge.
G: It is on this piece of paper.
H: But George, there is no smudge on that paper.
G: That is what is so confusing, I see the smudge but nobody else does.
H: Maybe you should have your eyes checked.
G: I can see perfectly well, hand me a book and I can read it easily.
H: Fine, here is a book, read it.
G: "The Humberdink Shriekster is a colossal creature of immense power, it is has the ability to become invisible at will and spawn illusions to confuse lesser beings, it also likes to create conflict between any religion. The Humberdink Shriekster was first thought to existed by the profit...." what kind of garbage is this!
H: It is the imagined folio, it is where the author, Kennedy Sphinx approached random people, asked them to make up a being or creature, and then he made a complete dictionary and short stories of those, isn't that fascinating.
G: Not particularly.
H: O come on! You must admit that it is at the very least interesting.
G: There is no doubt about that, maybe a bit crazy, but I could settle for interesting. In any case I believe I have displayed that my eyes are working properly.
H: Hmmmm.... than maybe your suffering under the effects of some recreational or medicinal drug.
G: All I had was cereal and a glass of orange juice this morning, and a sandwich with tea for lunch, the only drugs I have ever taken were Advil, Tylenol, caffeine, and some alcohol, that is it, nothing that should seriously temper with my mind.
H: Than maybe you are beginning to undergo the affects of a mental disease or disorder.
G: Are you suggesting that I am crazy or going to become crazy.
H: Going to.
G: How would I be able to deduce if I am?
H: Go to a psychologist.
G: I am not going to a psychologist.
H: Why not?
G: Because people will than think that I am crazy.
H: And there's the paranoia.
G: You are not a psychologist, so you are not able to tell if I am crazy or not.
H: Ah, so than it should not matter if you go to one for the people that may think you are crazy cannot, in actuality, diagnose that you are since most of them would not be a psychologist.
G: It does not the matter that they are not able to properly deduce if I am or not, it is the fact that they may think that I am.
H: And why would that matter?
G: It would matter because if I am thought to be crazy by a wide range of people it could effect my job, and how my friends see me. How would I end up in a relationship if I am thought as crazy?
H: My dear George, may I ask you a question?
G: Sure thing Harold.
H: Do you think your crazy.
G: I don't rightly know.
H: Just a yes or a no, would suffice.
G: I would then say no, I do not think myself crazy.
H: Well I really do not wish to say this to you but, everyone is crazy and the craziest of us are the ones who don't think themselves as crazy.
G: But... I... can't be crazy
H: And why not?
G: Because that would not make sense
H: Much like why you see the smudge and no one else does?
G: Yeah- I mean no- I mean I don't know.
H: George?
G: Yeah?
H: Would it help you to know that I actually did see the smudge on the paper, and lied just to tease you?
G: Yeah it would, it would also mean that you are a dick.
H: Fair enough, would it also help you to know that the Humberdink Shriekster does exist?
G: No, it would just mean that your crazy because such a thing like that does not possibly exist.
H: Then would it not help you then for me to let you know that I am simply an illusion created by the Humberdink Shriekster.
G: Hahaha, very funny Harold, nice try, but this prank is not going to work on me.
H: I'am a fade away now.
G: Harold, where did you go, this is not funny! Come back here!... Harold?... What's this on the ground?... A note... "God is a colossal being of immense power and can go invisible at will... signed Kennedy Sphinx" | 1 | 0 | 8 | 323 |
[FF] Voice(s) on the radio. | A: I love you.
B: Don't talk like that! We're going to make it through. We have to. The baby...
A: Only you have to make it through for the baby to live.
B: No. The baby only needs me to survive. To live, it needs both of us.
C: It's getting intense out here. We need to do something!
B: Please, don't do this. Our child needs you. *I* need you.
C: Shit!
A: OH GOD, CHRISTOPHER!
B: NO! Allan, get back! You're too close! He's gone!
A: I'm sorry. There's no way out except this.
B: That's not a way out, Allan. That's giving up!
A: I meant for you.
B: NO!
A:Goodbye. | 1 | 0 | 8 | 324 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 26 | 325 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | I closed my eyes, trying my hardest to fight back the tears. I slowly open my eyes to look at you once again. The deep look of pain in your face sends a stab of pain and guilt to mine. "II'm s-s-sorry" I manager to stammer, looking down at my feet before looking back up. "Why" you ask with a voice so broken that I feel myself falling into a pit of despair. Somewhere deep in the back of my heard, I know that I am doing the right thing, but seeing you now, like this, hurts me more than anything, and I start to question if it's the right thing to do. "I don't know, I can't explain it. I just can't do this anymore". You reach out to touch me, and I take a step back. I know that if you grab me, if you hold me in your arms again, all of my strength will leave me, and it will all be over. That is when the tears begin to fall. | 6 | 0 | 26 | 326 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | I woke up to the incessant screeching of my alarm clock. I was groggy and my head hurt. The noise was sharp against my ears. Shit, I felt hungover. I hadn't drank in days though. I rolled over and turned the alarm off. It read 7:30, usually I had it set for 6:30. I knew I was going to be late. This was a bad morning. Then I stood up. Where the hell was I? This wasn't my bed, my alarm, my lamp, nor my room. And what was that weight on my chest. Boobs. I had boobs.
This was getting weirder by the moment.
I quickly decided there was no way I was going into work today, it just wasn't an option. So I stayed home and fingerbanged myself while listening to Adele. | 16 | 0 | 26 | 327 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex |
People who smoke are addicted to the pack, not the single cigarette. That's why I would accurately describe myself as one. A single tube filled with harmful substances and bad decisions. A cigarette is smoked once and then thrown away much like dignity, passion or success. I can't be recycled. Instead I'm discarded and people sneer when they see me, or people like me, laying around. There is no care. There is no regard. There is only a request for someone to pick this trash up; If you're a user, can't you have the common decency to put it in the garbage when you're done? | 9 | 0 | 26 | 328 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | Look at me! Chicken legs, a gut, and stretch marks from where I **used** to be fit... Looking at myself in the mirror while wearing nothing but my underwear makes me question why anyone would ever find me attractive. *Shut up!* I turn the music up and pick up the weight sitting on the floor. *One...* How did I ever let myself get so out of shape? *Two...* I mean, I used to be so muscular. This is pathetic. *Three...* Sure there are worse looking people than me, but no one stops to look at me on the subway. *Four...* There was that one girl the other day, but I don't think she was looking at me. *Five...* Maybe she was, I did look pretty good in a suit. *Six...* Actually, I looked really good. I had a new shirt on and everything. *Seven...* I'm really not that bad. I just need to exercise more often. *Eight...* Maybe if I exercised three times a week instead of two. *Nine...* I hear the water shut off in the bathroom and see you walk out followed by a cloud of steam. Dripping wet you kiss me on the cheek, "Hey, sexy..." *Ten...* Nah, two times is fine. I look good. | 5 | 0 | 26 | 329 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 26 | 330 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 26 | 331 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | All of them are against me. In their desperate attempts to reconcile their thirst for power and their yearning for attention, they alienate me. Sexuality is their tool, shallowness is their nature, and sloth is their motivation. Without their high castles and their men, they are nothing but distasteful swine. They fear our liberation will cost them their spot at the right hand of the tyrant, and selectively accept the spoils of their second-class citizenship. We fought hard for our place now, and all they want is to regress to the Stone Age or some idealist 1950’s Levittown. I am strong. I am beautiful. I am different and they fear my power. I need no one but myself so if they want their spray tans and STD’s they can keep them, I am me. | 3 | 0 | 26 | 332 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | Okay. You can do this. You're good looking, smart, and god-damn, the ladies will want you. Oh, look at that one over there! She's hot! Now, remember, you don't give a shit about her. You don't want sex. You don't need sex. Fuck her. Fuck that bitch. Did she just look over here? Just act casual. Act natural. I wonder if she shaves her pussy? Okay, she's definitely looking at you, just walk over there and introduce yourself. YOU DA MAN! "Hi, my name's John." That's all you have to say. Fuck it, she probably has a boyfriend anyway. I'm just going to get hammered tonight. WOOOO!!!!!!! | 2 | 0 | 26 | 333 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | I looked into those soft, pale eyes. Their not just any eyes. I'm not going to just be looking into them tonight and let them go in the morning. This one, is the one. The way the soft, strawberry blonde hair falls to the arch of the back, the way those lips bite down when they're nervous, the way the freckles frame the nose, those pale blue eyes. I don't look at the body, I look at the face. Whatever is down there, I could care less at this point. I focus on those perfect collar bones, not the length of the skirt. I love the velvety sound of that voice, the soft, adorable sneeze, that adorable way the eyelashes flutter when they're ready for a kiss. We met at an art gallery, aposed to my usual weekly bar visits. That night I was just there to support a friend, and you were there with an admiration of the exhibit. You're cultured, unlike those whore's who're just looking for another drink. I want to explore the curves of your body like a long winding country road. I will go ankle deep, and I will go past the sky just to please you. This is it, something I've longing for, but to terrified to admit. The L word, it's for you. Not lesbians, longboard, lager, lust, or lagoon. For the first time in a long time, I just want to hold that waist and kiss those perfect lips. This one's a keeper, not just a one-nighter. Cause darling, I'm in love with you.
A little short, sorry.I had to write this, because it was how my friend of the opposite gender roughly described falling in love. | 3 | 0 | 26 | 334 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 26 | 335 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 26 | 336 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | "Another day another dollar", I told myself as I hopped off the subway of peering eyes and creeping fingers. Maybe, just maybe today I'll be able to make it to the fourth floor without the melody of the beasts howling at my fullmoon.
I made my way down the hall to Mr. Baxstons office. Photo's of his prized horse lined the walls, intertwining themselves with trophies and whatever it is these rich bastards do with their money. I set my report down on the table, and made my way to the door. He turned around in his chair, waiting. I hear a buzz and the door is locked. "So, about that promotion you asked for last week..", he says, a devilish smile on his face. "What about it..," I reply, a hint of curious fear in my voice. He rises from his chair and approaches me, "I've been giving it some thought, do you tink you can handle that type of ...position?" He brandishes a riding crop, and the second stage interview begins. | 1 | 0 | 26 | 337 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | The horror consumes me.
As I looked down at the pencil thick device, I wondered how my life came to this. Just yesterday, my dreams ran wild with outrageous aspirations and childish endeavors.
Now, I sit breathless, waiting for the Devil to envelop me. I'm only sixteen for Christ's sake! I'm too young to raise a child. I'm too immature to be a parent.
I wish it was yesterday.
I wish I was still a child.
| 4 | 0 | 26 | 338 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | I don't love my job. I don't hate it either. I just do it.
I'm an accountant. I work as an accountant. I am more. Well, there's more to me. I don't know.
I'm single, and get reminded of that fact at least daily by an overbearing, well meaning mother. She'll bring it up as a joke, but its really a trojan horse, filled with single men she knows from here, there and nowhere. "Sheila, I'll love you if you're a lesbian, just tell me. But if you're not you have to find a man, no fun being a woman without having a man to..." I cut her off. She sometimes gets so inappropriate. I blame Sex And The City, a show I used to hate until I realized how much my mom wanted to be Samantha.
Then there's my son. He's the light of my life and the weight on my shoulders. He keeps me afloat yet pulls me under. I'd be nothing without him.
Don't know how to make the line thing everyone makes to separate story from authors message so I just pressed enter a lot. I'd like to write some more on this maybe, it's a good exercise. I so often make all women have menstrual cramps or be pregnant or think about their weight. They all become a boring cliché. I actively try to correct this but my penis forbids it. | 3 | 0 | 26 | 339 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | I wrapped my fingers around the syringe, eyes locked on the burnt and dented spoon I was sticking it into. Careful now with the plunger, have to make sure I get every last drop into this sucker. Cotton looks dry enough, so I set the spoon down beside me and tap the needle to get any bubbles out. A bubble to the heart and you're deader than disco. Deader than Cobain. Deader than, well, dead. So I check to make sure there aren't any air bubbles and then I get to tying off my arm with an old leather belt. Rubber tubing's better than a belt but anything'll do in a pinch.
It always feels so strange when I slap my arm to get the veins up. I know it should hurt more but it's really sort of a numb kind of feeling. Like I'm slapping someone else's arm and they're telling me what it feels like. I find a decent vein and it's go time. This is what I live for, what I would die for. There's no reason to do anything else except get high. I mean, why the fuck would I work at some dead-end fry-cook job unless it was to get money for smack? I have no future. My future is in the sweet swirling liquid staring at me from behind thin glass. Oh yes, that's the future.
I haven't shaved in weeks. What started as stubble is now full-on hairy and I'm pretty sure I smell like I don't bathe. My sex drive is gone, so it doesn't really matter anyway. As long as I don't get fired for looking like a deadbeat, I don't give a shit how I look. Who cares?
The pinprick of the needle always sucks just a little bit. I've never really liked needles, even had to get drunk before I got my first tat. Blood snakes up into the syringe and my eyes fixate on the crimson liquid. Life. That's my life.
With a quick plunge of my thumb, hot heavenly heroin shoots into my veins and envelops my body in it's delicious embrace. I slump against the bathroom tile and revel in the coolness of it's surface against my flesh. I'm in paradise, at least for a little while... | 2 | 0 | 26 | 340 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | I sit at the bar looking around at the same crowd that comes in every night. Different people, same crowd. I twist my black straw around in my drink waiting for the bartender to acknowledge me. He's had a long shift. The asshole next to me has been jawing on and on about all the guns he has at home. Probably to compensate for the small penis he has in his pants.
I sip at the alcohol tinged soda water for a second. Hunched over. I feel nonexistent, while all the classics get the patter. "Long over an hourglass." I think, looking down.
"What do you mean?" The bartender says, as if reading my thoughts or... I just said that aloud. Fantastic. "Nothing," mumbling incoherently, "I mean I um." I blush a beet red. "Could I have another?"
"Sure thing" He smiles, winks and takes my glass. | 1 | 0 | 26 | 341 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 26 | 342 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | I’ve never understood the whole “difficulties of being a woman” mentality I am constantly reminded of by endless tampon commercials or my cousin Jenny (divorced with two kids and yet another on the way). In my eyes, everyone goes through difficult times – mine just so happen to include monthly menstruation. But instead of cursing the gods of gender, I instead choose to take solace in the fact that, at least thus far in my life, I have not encountered any vampires or other creature of the blood-sucking nature.
I’m sure that such a blatant example of a “woman problem” probably lessens the impact of my argument. But isn’t that just further blaming the odds one was dealt at birth? What are the most common issues you hear today’s man complaining about?
• Size (bodyweight, muscle definition, and obviously a man’s most treasured measurement)
• Money (not making enough)
• Fear of being unable to properly pleasure “their” woman.
How are these not just as transparently stereotypical to the penis as blood is to my vagina?
If this comes off as a bit harsh (I’m hoping it does), it’s because I’m truly pissed off. I risk my life every day just like they do! But it’s the one fucking day that I’m slightly slowed down by cramps that I’m constantly reminded of. I saved twenty-seven children from a burning hospital! But it was the one time I came into work with, admittedly unfortunate, bloodstains on my cape that earned me my first picture on our break room’s bulletin board.
We all came to work one morning a few months back to find Johnny passed out in a pool of his own vomit and ejaculate. Unsurprisingly, that earned him a round of high fives, and even more rounds later that night at the bar.
What makes it all even more upsetting is my superpower. The one thing that’s supposed to set me apart and make me special only furthers my problems. Fucking invisibility?! Because the one thing that helps when you’re not being heard, is obviously to make it so you’re not seen either. And I know they’re all just as aware of the irony as I am. You can see the pleasure in their eyes instantly flare the moment I go incognito during a battle, and suddenly it’s just the three boys fighting, pounding their chests.
Which is why as of two weeks ago (Day 17 to be precise), I am proud to say that I have been entirely refusing to use my powers to fight evil.
EDIT – I certainly didn’t mean to imply that I would now be using my powers to fight FOR evil, nor for any other reason. I suppose a better way to phrase that would have been to simply say, “I’m just no longer using my powers.” It’s like my own personal hunger strike.
UPDATE – Unfortunately, as I should have expected, my strike has gone completely unnoticed. Apparently since I was invisible during all of our previous exploits, I’m still assumed to be in action and am being given credit as such. Yesterday, for the first time in my life as a human mutate, my name was big and bold on the front page of every daily newspaper. They were all finally giving me credit. Credit for the one time I wasn’t there, and for the time it was the man who saved the day.
And I know you’re all just as aware of the irony as I am. | 2 | 0 | 26 | 343 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | Oh shit, where am I? My head. I gotta call my girl. What am I going to tell her? I didn’t mean to do it, you know how it is - I drank too much. I won’t tell her. I’ll get someone to cover for me and say I crashed at their place. Oh, my head.
“Hi honey, I know it’s early, just calling so you don’t worry. I bumped into Mark Southers last night and crashed at his place. Yeah, you remember Mark, from college? Right, right, the black-curly hair. I don’t know how tall he is, yeah 6”2’ sounds about right. Right, the guy we met a couple of days ago at Starkey’s, yeah that’s him. Where does he live? Right here, I mean an apartment down by the park. Yeah. Baby I’m sorry about that, I should of called last night. So I’ll just grab some breakfast and head home soon, okay? His what? I don’t know about his tan lines. Marcy, what are you talking about? Look honey, the truth is we got really drunk and I’m not feeling so well. I need to get off the phone and you know, I think I’m going to be sick. We can talk about it when I get home okay? What do you mean does he have a birthmark on his left inner thigh, why would I know that? Marcy, how do you know that? Look, I just wanted to …hello? Who is this? What? Mark, what the hell are you doing at my girl’s place?”
Click.
| 1 | 0 | 26 | 344 |
Writing Prompt: First Person - Opposite Sex | DING. It was the next stop on the bus. It was hard to breathe in, the air was thick and heavy it was the hottest day on record. The smell of pungent sweat and cheap purfume surrounded me. I have the sudden urge to kick the shit out of whoever designed the windows to open only 3 and a half inches. I can feel my own sweat bead up on my face. My shirt is getting wet and sticky, I can feel it on my nipples which are now also creating a sweat of their own. The beads of sweat on my back feel as if they're on the autobaun in some sort of race. The sweat races down to my ass crack, suddenly they catch hold of something else, my balls. My balls are now wet and sticking to the side of my leg. I look at the discomfort on the other faces of the men on the bus. Only the strong will survive now, for it is a survival of the fittest. | 1 | 0 | 26 | 345 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | As the waters of the Atlantic crashed over the South Carolinian shore, I sat in my tent. The camp had long since fallen silent. However, I was awake, poring over maps by candlelight. The lives of my men are far more important than sleep. Besides, the thought of my men suffering prevented any attempts to sleep.
The Yanks are camped just a few miles west. In a pitched battle, we would have little trouble overtaking them. Their commanders know that, and so they will continue to harass our supply lines and our stray patrols. Each time we make attempts to engage them, they simply melt away and flee into their pathetic squats in the woods. It infuriates me and that is likely exactly what the Yankees want. They will soon pay for their foolishness. Not yet, though. I will first make the people of this colony suffer.
Yes! That's it! I must bring the fight to the citizens, not the militia. That will either demoralize the men into dispersing or draw them into a real battle. They will feel my wrath, and the wrath of my men, who have been forced to subsist on embarrassingly small rations, as half of our foodstuffs are commandeered by those damn militiamen. Yes, no matter how unbecoming of a gentleman it is, it is my duty to both the Crown and my men to destroy these insolent "soldiers." Soon the world will know and fear the name Banastre Tarleton | 5 | 0 | 43 | 346 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | He appeared on my island one day in a flurry of storm, lightning, and churning waves, a small bundle of child in one arm, and a chest of frayed tomes in his other. Despite the tempest raging, not a drop of moisture landed on him, so I thought of him as a god. And as a mere mortal, was it not my place to worship him? I showed my idol all the fruits and blossoms of my mother's isle. I brought him the coolest spring water to quench his thirst, fresh pheasant to fill his stomach. A simpleminded creature, I did not understand speech. I smiled when he called me a stupid fool, and was pleased when he called me heathen.
*The Wise One is talking to me.*
Years passed, and the little thing so securely placed in its father's arms started to grow. It became a dazzling young woman, who laughed in wonder at every new thing. She became my new playmate, and taught me the human magic of words. But that magic became a curse. I could now understand when Prospero, as I learned his name to be, called me things. Things no one deserved to be called. He called me un-human, dirty slave, ugly in appearance as in heart, even as I did nothing but what he ordered.
*Humans are the ugly ones.*
I decided there needed to be more of me. One Caliban was not enough to defeat a Prospero, but perhaps ten could. So I hatched a plan to have Miranda carry my offspring. I would carry them into the world untouched by storm as Prospero had their mother.
I told my kind playmate these things, and she stiffened, eyes suddenly harsh. She disappeared without a word, only to return with an angry Prospero in tow.
"You dare try to dirty my daughter, you filthy slave. I give you the hospitality of my island home, yet you betray my trust. Your deeds will not go unpunished; I shall chain you to this boulder."
So here I sit, year after year, betrayed by both father figure and friend. Imprisoned due to my own naivete. *I did not betray your trust, you betrayed mine.* | 4 | 0 | 43 | 347 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | It isn't me committing these acts. It isn't me. It isn't me. I'm a normal guy, I thought while posting the pictures of my latest slain upon my shrine. My offering to those recently deceased. It isn't my fault that I have to honor the dead. They are dead. And *someone* has to honor them. Since they'll never be found. Since that psycho ended their lives so viciously, so violently. That psycho who isn't me.
He isn't me. I am not me. Am I?
No. I muttered a short prayer to Rupert Murrow, whose face will remained pinned to the wall indefinitely. I scanned the wall filled with the masses of people who will never be found. I stepped back. The eyes of the dead are watching me. The eyes of the dead are on me. I smiled. This pleasure isn't perverse. It's not me.
I exhaled a long, shaky breath, reminding me of the breaths so many of the poor, innocent victims release. Those poor people. What kind of person does these things? Not me. The long last breath is much more satisfying than the stuttered gasps of strangulation or the disgusting gurgles of regurgitated blood.
Disgusting. Humans are disgusting. Someone should take care of them.
But not me. It's not me. | 3 | 0 | 43 | 348 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | We were only taking orders.
To kill and to exterminate, they were only orders. But were they followed reluctantly? That I am not sure of. When I heard the sick and weary cries they made when they were kicked and shot and beaten was I detested of them or of the soldier who followed orders?
To this day I shall never know.
I remember myself in the snow. I worked restlessly, containing the prisoners, punishing the prisoners and exterminating the prisoners. Behind the iron fences that were electrified. Was I the bad man here? I took orders! Yes...
It was all him! The leader. I just took orders. Never thinking, for if you think you will be shot, or imprisoned. What could I do? Escape?
No...
Not even German soldiers escape Dachau. | 4 | 0 | 43 | 349 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | They have no idea what's coming. These people surround me and they think they are so noble and powerful. Feeding the children wants of materialistic items. These people disgust me. They feel as though they can disgrace me and my people? No. Not anymore. I need to make a statement. Should I go through with this? Is this the right thing? Of course it is. I pledged myself for this day. This hour. This moment. For these moments, the world will have their eyes on me. These greedy men and women will look to me in angst and wish they would have seen the warnings.
My seat is uncomfortable. The feels of anxiety and excitement rush through my veins. I look down to the other side and I see one of my partners. He looks at me with deep eyes. He has a family at home. He is leaving behind his wife and children for this. Is this the right thing to do? Of course it is. We must go through with this.
I hear a ringing in my ears in flashing before my eyes. It's almost time. My heart is racing within my chest. I close my eyes and think of my mother and father. They have so much faith in me and my mission. I suddenly open my eyes to the sound of a man talking.
"Ladies and gentlemen we are cruising at a perfect 30,000 feet and we will be arriving in arriving in Los Angels in about 6 hours. So kick back and have a great flight. Thank you for choosing American Airlines."
I look over. I get a nod. I slowly stand up ready to make history. To show these people that we are the true power of the world. I must not let him down. I must go through with this. Praise Allah. | 10 | 0 | 43 | 350 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | Here I am.
Beautiful night. Waters calm.
Oh hello. How are you?
Wait a minute.
What are you doing?
Please be careful.
Ouch! Are you okay?
Oh no. Please get up.
Goodbye ship.
What a beautiful night. | 37 | 0 | 43 | 351 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | Really? Again? How many times do I have to show her I love her. Those blue eyes, golden blonde hair, her incredible fashion sense. Sometimes I really think its me. Sometimes I don't feel good enough. It cant be my hair? I've been told I can be a bit assertive, but you have to be in my position. I mean, I have friends...workers...minions. But what girl doesn't like a guy with power. I own a castle for Christ sake! What more do I need? Obviously she doesn't care about looks if she's constantly out with that short, dirty plumber. I mean come on! We get it, you're a plumber! I Know you don't work THAT much where you have to wear you're uniform EVERYWHERE you go! Get some new clothes with your paycheck. I'm just as good as him. You know what? I'm going to surprise her with a date, I'll pick her up and take her to my place. Yeah, that sounds great. She'll love the gesture and how spontaneous I can be. I just hope that Mario doesn't ruin things, as always. | 15 | 0 | 43 | 352 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | This ended up far longer than I expected. Apologies. Haven't really written any pure prose in about 5 years, hopefully it's not as bad as I think.
*****
The holo displays around him flickered with every vibration that came through the hull. Some showed numbers, all falling swiftly. Others, formations of arrows, arranged in a three-dimensional array, with the blue steadily diminishing before a wave of red. Yet more were churning data, attempting to calculate a course that would preserve their circuitry and the lives of those they carried. The largest showed a projection of the *First Sword*, with a new indicator begging for attention with every stray las-bolt that pierced the protective bubble around it, finding a nest in the chinks of its rapidly failing armor.
His eyes moved languidly from display to display, and then came to rest on a timer. *I never should have authorized this program,* he though. *It serves only as a reminder of my errors*. The clock was ticking down, and the words "ESTIMATED TIME OF DESTRUCTION" flashed a translucent red beneath it.
He frowned at a stray rebel firehawk that had found its way into the middle of his fleet and was making a bee-line for the bridge, weapons flashing red, then green, then blue. The *Titans' Wrath* saw it, and with the precision only an AI could have, pierced it neatly through the cockpit with a ray of light. Its engines sputtered momentarily, and then its fuel tanks lost their integrity and engulfed it in a cloud of swirling flames. He knew he should derive some pleasure from the sight, but somehow, he could not.
As if reading his thoughts, the display to his left flickered and changed to a projection of the Eternal City, its alabaster towers ablaze and its streets filled with the newly dead. The latter did not faze him; the former, however, did manage to wrench a scowl from his tightly shut lips. The towers contained the results of a hundred years of quantum simulations, the majority of them bordering on breakthroughs into various fields of new technology. Wormhole bores, dark matter drives, telomere lengthening, all lost in the book burning the rebel leaders had styled as the Lazarus Movement after some myth of Old Earth.
"Ignorant bastards, every last one of them," he muttered. His fleet admiral glanced at him for a brief second, but knew better than to respond. He knew as well as the Emperor that there was nothing left to say.
His attention was wrenched away as the *Titans' Wrath* suddenly shone in a manner reminiscent of the death of Sol. *I have destroyed stars, even ended the cradle from which we were all born, and all it takes is a book and some dreams to bring me down,* he mused, bitterly. The *Titan's Wrath* had been the pinnacle of his empire's technological progress, armed with antimatter torpedoes and a fractal tessellation shield. Alone, it could bring ruin to a fully armed world sphere. That it would withstand the might of an entire galaxy, clearly, was too much to hope for.
Only four of his dreadnoughts remained in the orbit of Echelon V. *Mother* and *Rhaegon* were stranded to port, their drives shot and shields flickering. A swarm of rebel fighters was converging on them, like flies on a rotten carcass. Meanwhile, *Hades* and *Shiva* were locked in battle with a score of scrap-stars to starboard, the scrap-stars releasing firehawks and screamers as quick as the AIs could calculate firing solutions.
Scrap-stars were called as such because they seemed to grow with every conquest, taking on ruined pieces of destroyed ships and incorporating them into their design. Layer upon layer of trash, creating a machine that had the sole purpose of destruction. *Just like the rebels.*
His eyes came to rest once more on the timer in front of him. Two hours, 3 minutes, and 57 seconds remained, it told him. He sighed, his shoulders feeling suddenly heavier, his fatigue finally overcoming the quiet contempt that had been simmering behind his golden eyes. "With these, you shall be able to see as far as the galaxy stretches, sire," they had told him, prior to sticking them into his newly hollowed eye sockets. *They didn't very well help me see this, did they?* He allowed himself to smile at the thought, and made a mental note to have the doctors flayed, should he see them in the next life.
His finger moved to flip open the ornate switch on his armrest. He pressed it against the panel next to it, and heard the familiar *beep* that it had emitted the last twenty-odd times he had made the motions. Every time, something had stopped him, though he had known the outcome of the battle since the start. This time, something was different. He no longer felt that inhibition. The button sank smoothly, calmingly. His fleet admiral stiffened.
They both heard the high-pitch whine of the warp drive as it went beyond its limits, emitting antimatter that was too accelerated to stay within its containment shield. They both felt the vibrations as the core began to overload and react. They both saw the shields begin to light up around the *First Sword* as the loose energy bounced off of the inside.
Before the infant supernova hatching in the womb of the ship enveloped him, Emperor Arnaud Constance Veritas II, former regent of the Eternal Empire, had time to think one final though.
*I was their only hope, and they have slaughtered me. They know not the enemy that comes. They have slaughtered themselves.*
*Fools.*
*****
EDIT: Reading through this again, I realize I may not have emphasized the part where the main character is the antagonist, though I feel like it might perhaps be better to leave it more ambiguous in this case. In a classic story, the rebels/spacers/browncoats will pretty much always be the protagonists, so hopefully that carries across the subtext enough. | 8 | 0 | 43 | 353 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | Ruby slippers. The last remnants of my dear sister, ignominiously done in by a flying house. Not even proper time to grieve for the loss of my sister, my best friend. That monster Glinda convinced the stupid farmgirl to take my sister's heirlooms - rightfully MINE - off of her still-cooling corpse. And those pathetic Munchkins cheer. My sister might not have been the kindest ruler, but she did what needed to be done. Those Munchkins know nothing of politics, nothing of administration, even nothing of survival. Without the stern guidance of my sister, the land will fall apart soon enough.
But enough of that. I need those slippers. The only thing left of my family. I will get them back, even if it means my death. It's a shame that girl had to get involved, she did nothing wrong; she's just a pawn of that tyrant Glinda. But I will get those slippers back if it's the last thing I do. Flying monkeys, to me!
(Sorry, I know Wicked's already been done, I thought I'd try a difference approach to the perspective of the Wicked Witch) | 7 | 0 | 43 | 354 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | You think you're free? How sad, someone of such intellect believing in such bullshit. There is no freedom anywhere in this day. Gone are the times of privacy and secrecy amongst friends. Your entire life and dirty past are only a click away. Everything you like, feel, want, and need is monitored by companies trying to sell you their product. What you lust and crave is now their specialty. Things you never knew existed are now the most sought-after items. How can this be? Well, you pissed everything away in exchange for "comfort" and "ease of mind." Can't you see? It is all around us, this "secret life" of ours... never has humanity ever been so vulnerable to such little actions... you think you are free? You are bound to your computers, your cell phones, your consoles, that you do no stop and realize... every single thing you say, every single word you type, every click of your mouse is...feeding our knowledge. The only people free in this world are those with no technology. The tribesmen who decided to stay true to their nature and rule their lives with common sense. The law of the land, the law of nature. The law of centuries... I hate to quote such a cheesy popular phrase, but knowledge IS power. Power over the law, power over the competition, power over your own instinct...power over the world. The world doesn't end because you didn't know what you were doing! The world ends because you knew EXACTLY what you were doing. You think wars have a cause now? That they are fought over oil or land or even injustice? No, wars are fought over power... this power… when a dictator becomes too aggressive, we let it slide. When he kills his own people, why should we care? It's not our country.. but IF he chooses to go against the agenda? If He decides to get off the leash and run things his way? Then..THEN we must silence the dog.. How is a master to let his beasts run free? No, WE are the masters. WE have the power. WE control the governments, WE control the media, WE control the charities, the paramilitaries, the terorrists, the heroes...we control everything. Why? Because we know. We know what they are thinking, what they are going to do, how they will react.. We know their dreams, goals, aspirations, and most importantly, their fears... We know everything. And you?.. you GAVE US EVERYTHING!! YOU created the tools that are now used against you.. YOU brought forth this revolution turning your worlds upside down... your rise to glory is your fall to death... we? We were just watching.... | 2 | 0 | 43 | 355 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | I sit here in my leather desk chair, staring out my enormous window from my pitch black office. I can see the entire city from this spot. I can see the fires rising from the chaos that I have created. Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating shadows of people ravaging the streets below, believing they are all gods. Wait until they find out that they must listen to every command that I issue. For now, I will let them battle it out down there. I could care less if the weak survive, anyways. Regardless of who survives, everyone has gone mad, and it is all thanks to me. Finally, I have brought hell to Earth, and soon Lucifer will be here to take me by his side, for the atrocities that I have committed, and with my true father, I will rule the world with an iron fist.
Neither The Crimson Crusader nor the local police had knowledge that just twelve hours ago my henchmen, dressed as delivery drivers for a new local gas company, began to pump every station's supply throughout the city with a vapor that I had created in my lab downstairs. Within hours, over a quarter of the cars in the city were filled with it, and we needed only to wait for those people to make their drives back home. Soon, everyone in the city would be afflicted by it's powerful toxins, and that time has now come. Also, anyone that had left town with a gas tank full of our vapor would bring the same chaos to Hazelton's nearest neighbors. I would check the news to see what's happening in the cities around us, but it appears as though there isn't a working power source within ten miles of here.
There is movement behind me. Now I've got a shit-eating grin pasted onto my face. I turn around to meet my father, to have him take me home. I can hardly see anything in my office, but suddenly another flash of lightning lights up my surroundings, for less than a second. There is something on the floor, and I walk over slowly to get a better look at it.
It is a sign of some kind; three vertical lines, and one horizontal. I realize that there is pitchfork in front of me, burned into the carpet.
"You have come for me father! I am unworthy of your love, but will accept it. I will take myself under your wing, and together we shall - " Suddenly, I take a shot to the face.
I open my eyes after I hit my head on the ground, hard. It felt like a bag of bricks had just hit my face. I could smell blood coming from my nose. A sacrifice for my father. I begin to look up, but after hearing a voice, I lower my head again in a bow, to show respect.
"Damien Chulthon... To believe that anyone could love you after the crimes that you have committed is obnoxiously obsurd. And now you will pay for those crimes."
"But father, can I not come to be by your side, and together, we can reign over these lands?"
"I am not your father, I'm your worst fucking nightmare."
I am startled, and I look up. There, in front of me, is The Crimson Crusader's ugly mask, staring back at me, and I hardly am able to blink before he lands another blow to my face. His boots were extremely hard, steel-toed, that's for sure. My jaw is now numb, and I'm angry at myself for not realizing sooner the mistake I had made. But, how did The Crimson Crusader escape from the grasp of the vapors?
"How did you escape from the grasp of my vapors?"
"As soon as I had heard the first reports today of people running around screaming that the apocalypse was upon us, and the only way to survive was to stay out of their way, I knew that the most evil and brilliant scientist in the city must have been to blame." He exclaimed.
That smile comes across my face again.
"Unfortunately, I spent the entire day searching for Natasha Locke, only to find out that she is out of town on vacation. Either way, I knew something was up, and my mask successfully prevented any of your vapors from entering into my system."
Suddenly, my smile dissipates. Now, I'm really angry. I throw a fist, and The Crimson Crusader grabs it... I never was much of a fighter. I take another hit to the chest, this one slamming me against the nearest wall.
"Please, stop! There is a cure! It is downstairs in my laboratory! My access card is on my desk!"
"That doesn't matter now. I will get that cure out, but I've got something to finish right here, right now."
Another blow with those rock-like boots, this one square between my legs. I fall to the ground, and lay there crying.
"You really fucked up this time." The Crimson Crusader said, "and there will be no more second chances for you."
He grabs me by my jacket, and lifts me up. I scream out for mercy, but no one hears. He throws me into the window, and it cracks. One more time he grabs me, and I beg him to stop.
"Better luck in hell Damien." He said, before launching me one more time into the window. This time it broke, and I flew out, with nothing to break my fall but the street below. | 2 | 0 | 43 | 356 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | [deleted] | 3 | 0 | 43 | 357 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | I never look in the mirror anymore. It's not that I'm ashamed of what I've done. I have never been one for remorse. I don't look, because she doesn't. It's not fair that I should be able to admire my Adonis-like physique while decomposition prevents her eyes from ever seeing again. I may be a murderer, but I'm not impolite. I realize full well that when I take a life, I take every opportunity for love. I steal every subsequent breath the person could have had. I make them devoid of thought, emotion, and warmth. With all I take from my victims, I might as well give them some sort of respect. By covering my mirror, I have paid all I feel I owe them.
She started this. We were happy! I guess I became too....complacent with our life together. I had always wondered what I would do if she left. I had assumed it would be like every time a woman had left me before. I'd cry for a few months and eventually "Oh, alright" my way back into another relationship.
This time, it was different. I went absolutely numb for 2 days. I sat, with no lights on, in my living room for those 48 hours without feeling. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. After the 2 days were up, I could finally feel again. As the body-wide novacane dose faded, I was expecting tears. Instead, I was filled to the brim with an anger so fierce, I was scared to move, lest it consume me with fire.
I wanted to write more, but this is my first post to this subreddit and I am unsure of desired narrative lengths. | 2 | 0 | 43 | 358 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | [deleted] | 2 | 0 | 43 | 359 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | [deleted] | 2 | 0 | 43 | 360 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | I thought i had just figured everything out. I had just been named All State quarterback; my mom and dad just renewed their vows and my girlfriend is beautiful and nice. Until this nerdy kid showed up... He... He took my Girlfriend. That's what I was leaning on when my parents were gonna get divorced. That's what I was leaning on when i broke my wrist and he took that and my life fell apart. | 2 | 0 | 43 | 361 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | He became the ugly creature, a bitter shell of man I once called my brother. I remember when we were young children we would hunt for shells on the lonely, abandoned beach near our home near Cape Cod. Those were simple times and I held onto those memories dearly for as long as I could. I tried to hold on to the memory of our bright happy childhood. But those memories were replaced by those of my own bitter jealousy as he soon stole everything I held dear, whether he realized it or not. He stole my love, my scholarship, and finally the adoration of our parents. I hated him. I hated him with a sickening passion. It ignited a dark flame in my now blackened heart. There was only one way I had to quench this awful, all-consuming fire of hate that raged within me. I had to kill my own brother. | 3 | 0 | 43 | 362 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | Dear Diary,
I've done it! I am finally the headmistress. Now I can set about teaching these precious, impressionable, unruly children how to behave. I promise myself that I will not shrink from punishing them, because it is all for their own good, and the good of the wizarding world.
My office is quite cozy, however, it could use some brightening up, and a touch of color. Perhaps then the students will not be so afraid of me when I am punishing them.
Kisses,
Dolores
To do:
• Buy decorative plates for office, preferably pink with kittens.
• Find a new, *sharper* quill for young Harry. | 9 | 0 | 43 | 363 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | The General (for this is the name he called himself) watched the blurry lights of the yacht drift through the night's sea-fog, barely visible through its inky and invisible shadow, and hoped. At his feet lay his last kill, its form sprawled shapelessly in the thick underbrush, staining it with blood and viscera that made the darkness below it blacker than the black of night. It hardly looked dangerous, truly; he had begun to think, lately, that his entire enterprise, all his life's work since the fall of Moscow, had been in vain. What was the point of hunting when the prey gave no challenge, no challenge at all, to the predator? He turned back to the sea but the lights had already dimmed from sight and he sighed, granting himself a degree of disappointment. He thought of the lights in the false harbor he had spent so much time maintaining. Perhaps, when the salt spray burned them out this time, he would let them stay dark. Perhaps. He took the toe of his fine horsehide boot and pushed the body over the edge of the short cliff, sending it tumbling down into the scrub below. The jaguars would have eaten it if he had not already hunted them all from the island.
Later, he dined. His Cossack, the last of the brigade remaining, had turned into a superlative cook and drink-mixer, despite his distinct lack of mental acuity. The hunt, what a disappointment, had turned his appetite and he only ate borscht, that most comforting of the motherland's ancient recipes. A strong wine in a crystal bell rested precisely to one corner of the wide, shallow bowl of beet soup, precisely half-consumed. The General was a man of sharp taste and strong restraint in all things, even his one and most beloved of pastimes. A knock sounded at the front door, an oaken sound from a distance. His heart leapt in his chest and he looked sharply at Ivan. The Cossack glanced back, dumb rage burning in his pig eyes, and unsheathed a long and deadly-looking hunting revolver from its black leather holster on his hip. He walked out of the dining room and the General could hear his huge, heavy footsteps slowly descending the stairs to the foyer. The door creaked open and suddenly another voice was speaking, although the General could not hear what it was saying. He stayed in his chair for a second, flexing his long and calloused fingers on the velvet armrests, before pushing it back and rising. He smoothed the creases in his evening suit, he went to greet his unexpected guest.
As he forced himself to walk casually down the carpeted stair, he thought he could hear the quiet click of Ivan losing his patience. He heard the voice more clearly now, a man's voice, preparing to utter something in desperate panic. The General swept into the foyer and, although Ivan lowered his gun instantly and snapped into a perfect Cossack's salute, a gesture that normally would warm the General's hard heart, he hardly saw it. Standing at the door, his clothes damp and stiff with seawater, looking exhausted and yet somehow still a challenge, was one of the few men that the General could truthfully say he respected. The man was a member of that fraternity addicted to the blood-drink of the hunt, much like the General, although without having discovered the truly sweet liqueur that the General now subsisted on. The General smiled now at the surprised and impressed expression that now rose in the other hunter's expression and thought that perhaps he had been too hasty in giving up his most favored game.
He had his guest change clothes and come eat with him, maintaining his composure perfectly, although one toe tapped excitedly under the table. They spoke at length as the hunter enjoyed one of Ivan's excellent cocktails and the General savored the confusion and fright that slowly grew on his new companion's face. For all the General admired his guest's skill with the long-rifle and knife, the man was as dull as all of the other Americans that the General had met in his travels. He was a man of staid philosophy torn from his country's stale embrace of white-collared preachers and youthful tradition, his small passions backlit by the bourgeois instinct to buckle under trauma. The war had snapped the trunk of the savage tree that rooted Sanger Rainsford's soul. The General suddenly knew what would cure him of his ennui, of the black dog of disappointment that stalked him. He decided that he would run the man down and skin him like a boar. The General smiled and toasted Rainsford from across the table. In his mind's eye, he could see lights in a harbor, distant but closing.
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Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view |
I'm in Hong Kong, as a gang member's radial artery is slashed open in a street fight.
I'm in Pittsburgh, as an elderly woman slips into a deep sleep, unbeknownst to her family members in the next room.
I'm in Damascus, as a fourteen year old boy is forced to become a man as his father is killed by a Al-Assad sniper.
I am in Mexico, as a dozen men are locked inside of an outbuilding filled with drugs that's set on fire.
I'm in in Lufkin, Texas when a couple is involved in a car accident.
I'm in Toronto, as a jilted lover throws herself off an overpass into oncoming traffic.
I'm in Las Vegas, Nevada as a young junkie takes a risk he can't handle.
I'm in Tokyo, holding the hand of a man who's losing a battle with cancer, despite the fight he gave to beat it.
I'm there for them.
[I'll be there for you.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mcloY9BlOU)
| 2 | 0 | 43 | 365 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 43 | 366 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | [deleted] | 2 | 0 | 43 | 367 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | m(This is from Minecraft-- I'm sure all Minecrafters can guess who this is.)
Pungent smelling water drips down from the stone ceiling. The splintery wood on the abandoned supports is damp. Coal dust covers my blue, torn up shirt.
My pants are very dirty from kneeling here all day, waiting, waiting for that man to appear with his shiny iron pickaxe, and a bloodstained sword. The mirror of me. Better, nicer, happier. He's always been successful, and I *hate* it. I hate *him*.
My hands are asleep from laying flat on the gravel. But they rest on top of the steely hilt of a glistening diamond sword. The tip has been sharpened, and if you so much as poke it softly, it will prick your finger and leave it bleeding and burning for days. It waits under my hands. Soon it will be high time that it sends its blade deep into *his* heart.
Why must I slay the kind man, you ask? Kind *Steve*, who sings to the chickens, who pampers his dog, who feeds every animal he meets, and who has wonderful fortune? Well, let me tell you this. He is an *idiot*. For always acting like a puppet. He's a *puppet*. He doesn't know what he's doing. Why has he been doing the same old thing? Steve is being controlled. And yet, somehow, he has everything. The diamonds, the gold, the dream house, yes. I'm jealous, but he has to turn over his throne. Everything he does is pointless. One more reason to slay him-- I have a cold heart. I must kill. For I am the chunk error. I am the Void. I am everything that is bad and evil. I am destruction.
Suddenly, a deep, manly voice much like my own echoes in the cave. Clanky chain boots chime and clink against the smooth stone floor. It's Steve.
"Hello? *Woah!* An abandoned mineshaft, yess! Let's see . . ."
To catch his eye, I roll a diamond out in front of me. The wooden supports I sit between cover me in shadows. I whip out my gleaming sword. Soon, it will set for Steve's chest.
Steve sees the diamond. He slowly, very slowly, tiptoes over to the diamond. *Crunch*, his feet crushes the dry dirt. *Crunch, crunch, crunch.* The crunching noise grows closer, closer, closer, until a large shadow hovers about the diamond. He bends down. It is time.
Just as his fingers brush against the diamond, I stand up, and stab him in the back with my sword. He turns over to face me, and his light brown eyes grow wide as life seeps through his startled body.
I kneel over him.
"I don't understand," he says. "This is hardcore mode! I can't be here anymore."
I only nod. He gasps.
"Y-you're only in the legends. . ." he whispers. "Your white eyes."
A cruel smile spreads across my face his I simply nod again.
"But. . . no . . . H-Herobrine?"
I nod.
"No . . . why . . ." Steve breathes heavily and tears start to form.
"It's time to wake up, Steve." I say. "Time to stop dreaming. This is all a dream. *Wake up.*"
| 5 | 0 | 43 | 368 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | This country is still at war, one which so few even remember. How could they, if the fighting had reached its apex so long ago? There are no battles anymore and no bloodshed to remind us of the reality of it all. Just a set of rules, a treaty crushing us into our crumbling borders and making us weak.
But the fighting will begin again soon enough. | 2 | 0 | 43 | 369 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | The screams of another person fall on deaf ears under my boot. The audible approach to distinguishing the barrier between human pain and human sacrifice is not only a childish game but one for the feeble minded. No, I feel it. I feel the winter air brush the vibrations of death through my feet and the leathery harness of pure rage…pure dread, pull me through the blood red snow like a satanic sled to my next target.
Because man is nothing but a beast. One that has incapacitated themselves, to tell themselves a fairy tale, to help them hold their heads on their pillows at night to the thought that they are different then predator on the prowl for its prey. The prime difference between human and creature is that humans can deny to themselves who they really are. Like a child whistling past the cemetery. I know that people must play their kiddy games with their own minds to hide the fact that they truly embody the scum they tell their families to hate as they huddle in their underground protection bunkers from the latest swine flu epidemic. That they rape children, and sell drugs that destroy lives, and kill old ladies brushing the fall leaves off their front porches and then they walk the city streets with other people who do nothing to help each other, who are truly at core selfish creatures. These beasts would be lit on fire in the town square if they went by any other name then human. Any other name other than the one that they have hypnotized themselves to believe is simply correct, simply perfect. Any other name then the one that has channeled its own bout of Stockholm syndrome against them.
It was much like a child playing ball in the road, to be one of them. The days of walking amongst the hollow men and women, providing bread for my family were an unconscious moment. My hands were greased up for it to slip through my fingers and through the cracks beneath my feet to the darkness below, and with it I went. Little did I know that when I lost it all, my “Wife”, my “Children”, my “Family”, that I discovered that I am the beast, as is everyone I ever knew. Little did they know that I could rip the curtain covering it’s pale gruesome face and unleash a pure power unbeknownst to man, to machine, to modern marvel. Little did the world know that when you realize the potential of the beast, it is greatness embodied, it is ourselves in our pure form, it is what drives us – what can make us the towering force that can bring the world to its knees. I have become what everyone is, the true embodiment of my own energy I caged for so long and took it upon myself to spread the beast: to force the world to face itself, to challenge the Plebs stare at their true selves. I will force the world to make its own demise, not for riches or women but because the sake of feeding the inner beast, the human entity. Like a Shakespearian tragedy I will show that our people have burned themselves to the ground and when the beast is forced to be unleashed in every person on the planet we can finally be free from the shackles of ourselves and laugh at what we have become. So in an ironic sense, I guess it is fitting that the world made me The Joker.
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Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | Finally, I don't regret my choice in shoes. These trainers have just the right amount of support, but don't restrict too much movement. Not to mention they're red. I love red.
Dammit, my mind's wandering. Again. I must be getting bored. Why am I bored? I don't like being bored, I didn't choose to be bored... Ahh... there she is. Finally. That's why I'm here. I did choose to be here.
Clarity sailed to Tom on a wave of the woman's perfume. As the pheromones took their toll, his mind was racing again. But not out of control, just back to normal.
Why does she even bother brushing her hair in front of that mirror? It looks the same as it does before she starts. Every time. Doesn't she see that doing the same thing doesn't produce new results?
Tom ducked under the window seal as the woman swung around in her chair.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I can feel her warmth radiating even through this wood siding. She must be gazing out the window right above me, longing for me. For her warmth. Why am I in these bushes anyway? Why am I not above you, gazing into those exuberant eyes while holding you in my arms, holding your warmth. After all, I *have* chosen you.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The cheerful sound of chatter and light hearted laughter came whispering through the crack in the window, kissing Tom gently on his head. The familiar sound of the front door closing ripped the warmth of the lips away from Tom's cheek.
Ahh... you still haven't chosen me.
Tom adjusted his awkward squat into a comfortable position, using the house as a backing and the dirt as a seat. He looked at the stars through the clear purple dusk, then his head drifted down to the ground as he shivered in the night cold. The red of his shoes reflecting off the frosty silver sheen of the knife sitting between them.
| 2 | 0 | 43 | 371 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | He laughed through his gas mask. Nobody would ever understand him. People take things much too seriously. People have always said "the world is your stage," yet everybody chooses to be the same person. Nobody dares step out of line, or do something unique. The police had already captured him. They were walking him to their common police cars right now. Standard police officers. They thought they were better than everybody else. But they were just like all the others. I was based off of a villain, sure, but I was still unique. I had more character than any of these cops. I am original. I am fascinating. "I am the Joker."
(Colorado Shooting, not Batman.) | 2 | 0 | 43 | 372 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | Why are they so resistant? Don't they know that even now they are but a means to an end? A strategic position, nothing more. I saw in the eyes of their general as he stood against my men was a burning inferno of seething rage. Why do they hate me so, is their cause more true than mine? I burn these meaningless villages to the ground only to send a message to their sovereign, my enemy. If their ruler would only surrender, he would save the lives of many. They say I am corrupting the earth, although I am but a reformer. I seek only to purge the weakness from the land, and create the utopia that I was destined to rule for eternity. If they would prostrate to me, as is my right upon them, I would guide their lives to contentedness. Instead, they rise up against me in ignorance, doomed to fail. I shall slaughter their sons and burn their fathers for their arrogance. I will allow nothing to obstruct my path to deification, and I will destroy all who dare to stand against me, even if they defy to the last man. I will burn them and erase their wretched from this earth before I give up my right to their dominion. Their daughters will curtsey at my glance and fulfill my whims, and their women will bare my children. I will spread my seed throughout them, so that my visage remains among them for generations after my transcendence. Tonight, they bow to me in fear, and they will bow in gratitude for centuries to come! | 1 | 0 | 43 | 373 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 43 | 374 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | I deal in fear. People will look back on my life and say, I was a monster. Broken. These things I cannot deny. I've killed more people than you'd like to know, in more painful ways than you'd like to imagine. But I don't think people truly appreciate my work. Before my time, as some would put it. You see, I may trade on death and destruction, but my final product, the end result, is something far more profound--less barbaric. Allow me to explain. When you were a child, you stared into the darkness. Desperate for protection, you would grasp at your blanket, your bear, maybe even go wake your mother. The threat of being alone forced you to latch onto this object--you never went anywhere without it. The bond you made lasted a lifetime. So the next time the gun goes off and you clutch your loved ones, fearing they might be next, be sure to thank me. You're closer to them than you'll ever be. | 3 | 0 | 43 | 375 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | It was on the corner of Fifteenth and May
During a particularly sunny spring day
When I got rather angry at my dear little Janie
On the corner of Fifteenth and May
How it happened I cannot recall
For you see it really was not important at all
But I think it was about a telephone call
That somebody made to dear Janie
On the Corner of Fifteenth and May
She talked about this and that
And THISsed and THATed, THATed and THISsed
And her voice did so grate at the holes in my head
And soon I got rather pissed
For she would not desist with the THAT and the THIS
So I shoved her mouth hole straight into my fist
And stopped her THATting and THISing right quick.
On the Corner of Fifteenth and May
Now I know that some will complain
And some even might think me insane
But part of one’s fatherly duty
Is to control pleasure and pain.
And by god if she did not shut the fuck up
For she knows I’ll do it again.
And again.
On the Corner of Fifteenth and May
| 1 | 0 | 43 | 376 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 43 | 377 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | Forever has he evaded me, but somehow I have crept through the cracks. I was created here. Brought to existence as an experiment; I was never alive, my existence stuck between the limbo of life and death. Nothing is what it used to be anymore. The air around me dark, void of life. Everything is broken, the lights flicker as I slowly make past the rooms. I haven’t eaten in days. My existence already ravaged my body. I couldn’t stop now; I had come to my beginning. I bit and tore through the cracks in the locks. Lab 202 was not immortal anymore. I edged forward towards the last corner of humanity. I could already feel the shadow of my creator, curled up in the dark corner of the room, clutching his legs as he knew his time has come. The lights flickered above his mortal substance as I lunged at his neck –Even in that moment of sorrow, he remained still, adamant as a last tear of humanity rolled down his face. | -1 | 0 | 43 | 378 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | In jail. Again. How many times am I going to go to jail. Well at least they are giving me the same cell. Crap. I have a cell mate again. I wonder how fast I can get rid of him. Last guy lasted about 5 hours. This guys seems like a wimp. I can probably get him to break in less. Should I do the same thing for the last guy... Nah. That would excessive. Plus I didn't eat enough to sh*t in his bed. I'll just beat him down. That should do probably. But if the plan goes without a hitch hopefully I won't be stuck in this concrete hole any longer... Just another day here. Just one more day. | 1 | 0 | 43 | 379 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 43 | 380 |
Writing Prompt: Write from an antagonist's point of view | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 43 | 381 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | Haiku first try.
You can not see me
I am not he she or it
For I am my own. | 6 | 0 | 14 | 382 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | "Always running through second place" they repeated constantly after losing another event. Preparing months, staying overly consistent with practice, over thinking once again that maybe winning first place could actually happen. Seeing that growing older made people demand more gold medals, when sometimes winning could involve even participating. Second isn't that terrible when your hard work shines through. Being last isn't awful either when effort becomes the journey, when modesty becomes winning.
without using words less than 4 letters definitely makes you think more. | 3 | 0 | 14 | 383 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | Sunday morning, twins awake from fitful slumber with sweaty palms. Remembering dreams that found perch within their normally restful minds, they swap questioning then knowing glances, before climbing down from their bunks.
Looking outside together, they grip each other's hands tightly. Rain. During February. Highly unusual. Freak occurrence, perhaps, though unlikely. They both know which explanation makes sense.
Downstairs, their mother busies herself with making breakfast; doesn't hear them leave, quietly, through their window. They climb down quickly with practiced technique, dropping softly onto grass below.
"Should have been last Sunday," Lucas says.
Amelia nods. "Late again."
They move swiftly, rustling corn stalks around them, leaving muddy footprints, heading towards Olsen's clearing. Months have passed since last time they were there, since they said goodbye.
"Quieter than last time," Amelia says. "Must have been upgraded."
Finally, they reach Olsen's clearing. "Hello?" they offer together.
Aaand I'm stopping here because this is really goddamn hard. Also I have no idea where I'm going with this chain of events. | 2 | 0 | 14 | 384 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | Selecting different tactics than what Nigel previously knew, blue team's creative efforts were still less impressive than they would've liked. Side flanking strangely failed when their opponents were thoroughly bunkered deep down their caves. Instead, they have chosen scare tactics, followed with rapid close combat. However, Four green teammates were already gone, with only five remaining. Nigel counted seven downed blues.
"North!" Nick screams, just when fire spurts from behind some pillars. "Watch left tunnels!" Nigel replies. Just then, Mark rotates, seeing blues painting Marks chest blue. "Behind!" Nigel yells, just fast enough that Nick counters their charge, nabbing another blue. They head over near Mark's body. "Soon blue will succeed." reminisced Nigel towards Nick. "Soon." | 3 | 0 | 14 | 385 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | Sven wanted home comforts. Nightly dreams painted youthful lanes, teenage alleys, twenty-something streets, each warm, each filled with something lovely. Here, each avenue served notice that Sven wasn't where these memories were formed, where myriad good times seemed promised. They'd warned against this city, listing countless annoyances. None could keep Sven from coming. Inevitably enough, after eight weeks, every initial rationale appeared hollow. Nothing would have warmed that heart more than glimpsing something homely.
"Your window seat?" asked Mister Dong, restauranteur extraordinaire.
"Brilliant," said Sven, summoning some feigned enthusiasm.
"Your usual?"
"Sounds great."
Mister Dong strode comically through swinging doors, raining booming insults down upon sweaty chefs. Re-emerging some moments later, obsequiousness replacing anger, Dong gracefully placed pork dumplings upon Sven's table.
"Television?" Dong asked.
Sven nodded between chews while Dong pressed "POWER". Nothing happened. Veins throbbing, Dong unleashed fury upon this innocent television, most likely sparing some clumsy waiter similar treatment later. Static. More static. Those punches were impressive, supporting Dong's (drunken) claims regarding past pugilistic glories. Sven felt lonelier than ever, slouched before damp dumplings, tyrannical Chinese fellow abusing electronic appliances... enough. Rising, Sven quickly paid, trudging outwards when suddenly, familiar voices spoke. "BORK BORK BORK!” Though Dong’s malfunctioning television continued flickering, Swedish Chef’s unmistakable cooking tips echoed throughout that restaurant. Momentarily, Sven felt salved. | 3 | 0 | 14 | 386 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | Percival dreamed every night, dreams that made Percy wise.
Many opposed Percival's dreams, running towards lies,
Percival knew that hope would find them, stifling their cries,
Percival's dreams would conquer fear, they would open their eyes.
(That was hard) | 2 | 0 | 14 | 387 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | Awakening suddenly without clear thought regarding today's rigorous tasks. Soldiers lazily raise their arms high above their clean shaven heads. Sunlight beams through tattered curtains highlighting floating dust particles. Robert arises first, brushes every tooth, combs every hair, mandatory inspections require perfection. Captain Jones sounds Reveille signaling that training once again already commenced. Today's task includes moving heavy rocks around. Robert sighs, wondering when everyone's hopelessness will turn into elation. Rocks, stones, boulders....each heavier than others, Robert's thoughts turn dark, twisted...murder. Escape possible only through evil deeds, kill Captain Jones! Robert sighs again looking skyward.... | 1 | 0 | 14 | 388 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | [deleted] | 31 | 0 | 14 | 389 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | Rapidly awakened.
Dreams that haunted night, fade away.
Sheets drenched, pillow damp.
First light.
Should tonight frighten; will tomorrow come?
Lover's embrace long lost.
Alone tonight, forevermore.
| 2 | 0 | 14 | 390 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 14 | 391 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | Rain falls heavily onto cobbled streets.
Thunder asks what lightning's doing.
Children cower beneath their sheets.
Stay inside, great storm's a-brewing.
Ok, I kinda cheated with "a-brewing", but I couldn't think of another way to word that last sentence. | 9 | 0 | 14 | 392 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | I feel like I cheated.
Bodies everywhere. They're dead. Everyone's dead. What happened? Can't remember. Fragments. Just fragments. Shellshock. They call this shellshock. Children. There were children. Daughter, Susan. Jack, Susan's brother. Their mother, Lisa. Married Lisa after college. Lisa's dead. Jack, Susan, Lisa, everyone. Everyone's dead. | 8 | 0 | 14 | 393 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | Dark, dusty, damned. Oxygen combined with nitrogen itself whisked through dark streets, sluggishly. Smog, from pipes spewed out, constantly polluting pure atmosphere with black, arriving with some sort of medium grey, halfway between both colours.
Poor houses lined both sides, their walls stuck together, disallowing blank, empty space's existence. Poor beggars scattered across streets, some begging, others busking, lucky ones returning through wooded doors, haphazardly placed, blocking most weather from their homes.
Today, sounds from whirring engines, sputtering exhausts, wheels spinning fast that they appeared slow, came across King Street. Poor citizens looked through their shabby windows, peeked above their dusty bicycles, whatever they called home. Sleek black metal vechiles rode above, looking very incongruous. Someone from Rich Districts arrived into King Street's hellhole.
Silence took reign again. Dust that were flying from high speed spinning wheels settled again. Residents looked around, creating momentary calm. Then they shrugged, then went back, with their normal work.
((This is really hard -_-. I'm writing this at school though so I'll finish here.)) | 6 | 0 | 14 | 394 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | [deleted] | 1 | 0 | 14 | 395 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | Fable bleating bleeding heart
Cowering over oceans start,
'Twould never surrender loves purity
Only wicked shrewd severity.
Darkened hour coming late
Feeding upon horror's plate.
Light lingering above mine head
Until mine heart gives, thus dead
None words come through mine mouth,
This ending sure went south
Because that heart became mine demise
'Twas given towards false love's rhymes.
Empty shell have become
Nevermore shall happiness overcome.
This poem's narrator fallen
Drowned underneath that abysmal ocean.
That fable bleating bleeding heart
Stoppeth under fiery hell's part,
Never thusly riseth towards light's harp. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 396 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | >
> Heat blows from forge fires behind opening valves. Tyrone, stepping through them, looks around. Working critters stand around magnificent machines, breathing steam interleaved with their proper perspiration. „Nothing, nothing except stinking purulent bastards“, utters Hugh while wading through whatever black, smelly material lies around. „Naah, horrible idea going down here. Merely Clayton having wise ideas again.“
>
> Tyrone cannot claim feeling different. Bold Factory isn‘t shunned from small talk unfoundedly. Working down here within halls made from black-lacquered, bent metal ensures long work days, hard labor, illness, though nothing else. Nobody stays here longer than they must. Tyrone sighed.
>
> „Let‘s just find whatever Mertington‘s thugs tried hiding down here. Preferably before we‘re suffocating.“
>
> “What's that we're searching anyway? Clayton wasn't very specific about -”
>
> “Spare your breath. Everyone knows you're inattentive during Clayton's briefings. Won't criticize that, though. Well, apparently until Mertington staged some 'accident' freshman merchants tried selling artifacts. Since Clayton's interested, they're probably powerful.”
>
> “Mertington's Magic Theatre Group. Phew, artifacts. When everyone's that interested, they'll have lots of energy left. Like, 'running whole assembly halls months-long' much.”
>
> “Yeah, whatever. Let's inquire some workers.”
>
I wanted to go on, but it really is too exhaustive :(
EDIT: Corrected me being sneaky late at night and hiding 3-letter words in there. Tsh, tsh. Evil me. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 397 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | That, That right there, almost killed your family.
Your life almost ended from that truck. You're very lucky standing here today | 1 | 0 | 14 | 398 |
[FF] Poem or story without using words less that 4 letters. | They never wondered where their children played. Police officers scold their negligence, after finding these youngsters throwing rocks into traffic. Didn't occur that they should feel responsible. They didn't understand police penalizing them just because their children misbehave.
Officer Toltsky walks back, thinking that these children could raise themselves better than their parents. | 1 | 0 | 14 | 399 |
Subsets and Splits