Tag: my writing

There’s this,,, atmosphere that imagine dragons songs always have, and i can picture it clear as day. I can almost feel it.

Like

It’s dusk and you’re riding down a long road with your friends, the horizon stretches forever and the breeze kisses your cheeks. It’s night and you’re laying on your car, or your roof, in a tree, and someone you love is next to you, and the stars are almost as beautiful as them. It’s midnight and you’re at the beach, and the only light is the bonfire and the moon, and the sound of waves in the background makes the world fall away, and the sound of music makes your feet move through the sand in time with your friends. The sun is rising, or maybe it’s just begun to set, and you’re lying on a blanket in a field, meadow to your left and forest to your right. There are arms holding you and you never want them to let go.

writing-prompt-s:

A psychotic killer gets more than he bargained for when the kids he planned on terrorizing turn out to be far more bloodthirsty than him.

It was not his first kill. He was smart about it. Scoped out the place, waited for the parents to leave, cut the phone lines. They had cell phones, but they’d be dead before they even saw him coming.

That was what he thought, at least.

Waking up tied to a chair in a basement had not been part of the plan.

“He’s awake.” The killer heard from a giggling girl behind him.

“Great,” said another voice. “We can finally get started.”

The killer opened his mouth, perhaps to call for help or ask who had tied him up, but he found that his mouth had been gagged.

Dainty footsteps sounded until two children stepped out from behind him, smiling.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are.” The girl commented idly. She watched with vague interest as a boy – her brother, the killer realized – began putting tarps around the room. “You’re good, I’ll give you that, but you’re not good like we are.”

“You see,” the brother continued, unprompted. “We noticed you the first time you did some recon of our house. Don’t let that get your pride though, not everyone has the… skills we do.” He smirked at his sister.

“Right.” She went on, circling the killer as she talked. “And not everyone has a pet demon they’ve got to feed.” She leaned in to the killer’s ear, whispering. “We couldn’t get her some meat last month, so she’s extra hungry.”

The killer gulped, eyes wide and fearful. It didn’t matter that he didn’t believe in demons, these kids were monsters all on their own.

The brother turned back around, now with goggles on, another pair in his hand, and a wand. He handed the remaing goggles to his sister, and waved the wand in a complicated motion.

There was a howling sound from somewhere outside. The boy smirked. “Here comes Cupcake.”

The girl put on her goggles, and looked at the killer. “Oh these?” She pointed to her goggles, despite the fact that he obviously hadn’t said anything.

There was now growling coming from right above the basement. The killer could here something coming down the stairs, and it was big.

“Sometimes we like to watch the show.”

writing-prompt-s:

You are a psychic medieval swordsmith, with the ability to see the future of every sword you make. This sword you just forged will kill the king.

You hide it. There is no time to destroy it, not when the woman who is to have it expects it very soon. You spend the followings days and nights slaving away over flames, working to create another sword. If this sword is also destined to kill the king, then it is the woman. You will not sell to her. If not… well, you will figure something out.

The king is… not a good king, but you have a roof for you and your daughter, and you put food on the table, and you are grateful. It’s all you can ask for.

So it is with relief that you hand the newly made sword to your commissioner. She will use it to fight a group of thieves near a town that is miles away. That’s as far from the king as one can get, and better yet, it’s far from your home as well. The king-killing sword is hidden under a floorboard upstairs.

Everything is fine.

The king imposes a new set of laws. Taxes are raised. Those who cannot pay them are taken off to jail, no warning. There are whispers going around, that the king is up to something, that he has lost trust in his own citizens, that he does not care if he hurts them.

You think guiltily to the sword upstairs, holding a prophesy you do not dare reveal. You say nothing.

People are starving in the streets. There are so many children without families. You can feel the kingdom crumpling.

You tell your daughter to come home earlier and earlier. Lately knights are roaming the towns, and they are brutal men. Your daughter has a strength of her own – and she in fact fights you on every curfew – but while she is only a snake, they are wolves. You cannot risk another loss.

More rumors spread. Talks of rebellion, which are squashed and otherwise dealt with. Then whispers of rebellion, so quiet they take weeks to travel. But travel they do, and they bring hope with them, a dangerous feeling.

Your daughter disappears for hours at a time, sometimes coming home after curfew. You yell and worry and look her in the eyes, trying to get her to see that the world isn’t safe anymore. But she only smiles. Promises you that she’s safe. That she loves you.

There is something she’s not telling you, and it dances in the shadows of your mind, always.

—

Suddenly, a secret comes to light. The king is looking for a girl. A girl who is prophesied to kill him. It sounds like the raging of a paranoid man, but you know better than most how true prophesies are.

He has begun rounding up the daughters of everyone, rich or poor, looking for the girl that fits the prophecy. When he finds her, she will die.

You pack. You gather your things and your daughter’s. People are getting angry, you’ve heard of a revolution that’s coming, and that’s the perfect cover to leave under. No one will notice you and your daughter in the chaos.

Night comes, and your daughter is not yet home. You can hear yelling in the streets, fighting, panic. You rush, grabbing anything you can hold on your back. The rebellion started sooner than you planned, and it’s the best you can do on such short notice.

After a moment of hesitation, you run upstairs to the floorboard that hides the fated sword. Prophecy or no, you won’t waste a weapon.

When you pry up the floor, it is gone.

—

You run to the castle. Around you, citizens fight with the might of a people angered. Bodies and blood litter the ground, but you hardly notice.

You have one goal in mind: find your daughter.

—

There is so much carnage. It does not hit you until you reach the castle steps, and find them drenched in blood. It pools, sticky and horrifying underneath your shoes.

You continue on.

The entrance gates are smashed open, and fallen trees rest nearby, indicating how it was done.

The giant hall before you reveals a massacre. It isn’t clear which side took the most losses.

You run, trying to block the carnage from your mind, and finally you reach the throne room.

There you find your daughter. There you find the king. There you find the sword.

She holds it loosely, confidently, but her eyes betray the waves of emotion she feels. She doesn’t notice your presence.

“A king doesn’t let his people starve! A king doesn’t cause poverty to sweep through his kingdom! A king doesn’t throw people in dungeons for the poverty he caused!”

With each sentence, she takes a step forward. With each of her steps forward, the king takes a step back. He is silent, face pale.

“You are no king.” She hisses. “Your people die around you and you do nothing. That prophecy was only an excuse to further your reign of terror. Look where your prophecy has led you now.”

She raises the sword.

You forgot, in all your worry, that yes, wolves can bite. But snakes can, too. And snakes have venom.

—

It takes months to find a new semblance of normality.

The king had no family but his son, who fled with the nobility to the four corners of the world at the first signs of trouble, dispersing like wind.

They don’t come back.

The people rally before your daughter. She is a killer of a king now. They call her a hero.

It is not a shock that the next person upon the throne is her. She’s always had oceans in her eyes that you knew could conquer any ship.

She helps, far more than any ruler before her. It takes time, but the kingdom is prosperous once again. You let go of your craft. You’ve had enough of prophecies to last a lifetime.

You create one last thing, however, before you are done for good.

The king’s old crown is destroyed, as soaked in crimson as it is. You make a new one.

It’s a work in progress, as you’ve only ever made weapons, but it comes out breathtaking.

You don’t know if you’ll get any visions of the future, as it’s not a sword, but that apparently doesn’t matter.

As you give the crown away, as you watch it placed on your daughter’s head, as you hear the cheers of the people, you get just a glimpse of something near.

It’s over in a flash, and you smile, watching as your daughter addresses the world as it’s queen.

writing-prompt-s:

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

Farmer Brown talks as he works. This has always been known. When he is feeding the chickens, he wishes them good morning. When he is plowing the field, he thanks the soil for its service in providing his family food. So when he comes to the decision to build a temple, he speaks.

“I heard about them temples out West. The ones where people sometimes see gods, and they help humans. Well, I figure my family could use a little help. Not sure what god might make a home here-“ He sits back, wiping sweat from his brow. “-but it’d sure be nice if you were kind. My sweet little Jamie needs kindness. After Marsha passed… she’s been so lonely.”

Farmer Brown stands up, a small but bright temple before him. “Oh! Before I forget.” He places a bowl of oatmeal in the spot he cleared for offerings. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

He doesn’t look back once as he walks home.

The next morning, Farmer Brown wakes up to the sound of barking.

“Look Papa!” Jamie cries, crutches tossed to the side and a joyful smile on her face. “A puppy!”

Sure enough, a dog is happily squirming in Jamie’s lap. Farmer Brown immediately picks up the dog, putting it down a few feet away.

“Careful, Jamie! You don’t know where that thing came from. It could have fleas. Or worse!”

Jamie frowns and points out the nearest window. “She came from over there.”

Farmer Brown looks in the direction Jamie pointed. He can see the edge of the forest and can just barely make out the small temple he’d built only the day before. He looks down at the puppy, considering.

Jamie continues to chatter, unaware, or perhaps too excited to care, of her father deeply thinking. “And look, Papa. Her fur is soft and clean. She looks like she came straight out of a pet store! …can we keep her?”

Farmer Brown sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I suppose. But you gotta wash her first. Just in case. Think you can handle that?” He doesn’t even look at her crutches, only waits for her response.

Jamie’s eyes light up. “Of course! Of course! Thank you so much!” She squeals.

As soon as she stands up, the puppy perks her ears and follows Jamie, tail wagging the whole time.

Farmer Brown watches in wonder as they disappear into the bathroom: he can’t remember the last time he saw Jamie that happy. Soon, however, his brain is reminded of a thought he’d entertained several minutes earlier.

He takes his time walking to the temple; there’s no rush. When gets there, the bowl from yesterday is in the exact same place, but it’s been scraped clean of oatmeal. He picks up the bowl and leaves a pink carnation, one of Marsha’s favorite flowers, he remembers absently.

He ignores the skeptical voice in his mind and bows slightly. “Thank you.”

Then he turns around, and Farmer Brown walks home.

From behind a tree, a woman watches. She does not look godly, but she is definitely not human, not anymore. When Farmer Brown is far enough out of sight, she picks up the carnation from the temple, smiling the kind of smile one only exhibits when receiving a gift they will deeply cherish. She looks back up, staring at the house where Farmer Brown and Jamie live, now with the inclusion of an excited puppy, and the reintroduction of a beautiful smile. Her eyes are full of love.

softimpossible:

American Roadtrip Gothic

You are driving down a highway. To your left is a McDonald’s and a gas station. To your right is a Wendy’s. You exit onto another highway. To your left is a McDonald’s and a gas station. To your right is a Wendy’s. You exit onto another highway. To your left is a McDonald’s and a gas station. To your right is a Wendy’s. You exit onto another highway.

You are driving through the Midwest. All you can see is corn. Occasionally you think you see eyes in the fields, but it’s probably your mind playing tricks on you. Probably. You look down at your watch and notice that it has been three hours. You look up and still, there is corn. Two hours later and still, there is corn. There is nothing but corn. There is only corn.

Your are driving through the South. There are signs everywhere, signs crying “we are all damned” and “hell is upon us.” You do not know if this is normal and are afraid to ask. On every street there is a church. At every house there is an American flag, waving in nonexistent wind. There are mothers working in their gardens. They all turn they’re heads at the sound of your car driving by. All their faces are exactly the same. You stop at a small restaurant before you leave. You ask the waitress for a burger and unsweetened tea. “Unsweetened tea!?” She cries, confused. “Unsweetened tea?” Her voice becomes deeper. “Unsweetened tea.” She intones to the kitchen. When your order arrives, it’s a burger and sweet tea.

You are driving through a city. You notice there seems to be a lot of art students. Many carry canvas bags and backpacks, but all of them have dyed hair. You look around again, and you notice that everyone has dyed hair, ranging from bright reds to deep violets. You cannot find any browns or blondes. They all have colorful hair. They are all art students. You look into your rearview mirror. Your hair is bright blue. “I’m an art student.” You whisper in horror.

You are driving west. You do not know how long you have been driving, only that you are driving west. There is so much traffic. You think you have spent days on the highway, staring at the car in front of you. You can’t be sure. The people are a strange mix of hurried and unbothered. You try to ask for directions, but the answer you receive is in another language, for all you understand it. You ask another person and they explain in a tongue you understand, and they tell you to make a right turn at In-N-Out. You look around you. There are 7 different In-N-Outs just within the radius of your eye sight. You begin to cry.

writing-prompt-s:

You’re the worst kind of psychic. Everyone can read YOUR mind. But they don’t always know it’s not their thoughts.

I’m the worst kind of psychic, unfortunately. And I’m pretty evil about it, too, in case you were wondering. Which you were, because I made you.

Now here’s a story. Picture this.

You’re working your graveyard shift at the El Cheapo gas station. It’s dead, as usual, and you’re scrolling through twitter on your phone because it’s not like the boss is there to stop you, or that he would even care.

You really want to open the cash register, you suddenly think. Well, it doesn’t hurt to pass time counting bills, so you open it. Your hand is just reaching for the $20’s when: now you really want to turn off the security cameras.

“No I don’t!” You accidentally shout out loud, but you know, you don’t want to get fired, and there’s no one in the store, anyway.

Yes you do! Your brain tells you. And if you don’t you’ll feel terrible.

“What-“ you start to say out loud, because what is your brain doing, but before you’ve finished the question, your head is suddenly killing you. It’s like someone is vaguely hitting it with a metal pipe.

I’m going, I’m going, you think angrily, for the moment not caring that your brain is being weird as hell, not when something as simple as turning off the security cameras could make the pain stop. You use the sleeve of your jacket to touch the computer, absentmindedly worried about finger prints.

And sure enough, as soon as the cameras go down, so does the pain.

You walk out of the back room, suddenly worried about how you’ve left the cash register open, when you see a shadow in the corner of your vision. A hand comes into view, holding a metal pipe, and then your world disappears.

You wake up to someone shaking your shoulder. It’s the boss’s daughter.

“Are you alright?” She asks, while helping you sit up.

You look at the cash register, which is still open, except that it’s completely cleared of cash. “I think we were robbed.” You say in a daze.

(And before you ask, yes, I had to hit myself with a metal pipe. No, it wasn’t fun. Yes, I have to do it if the mark isn’t cooperating. But you don’t care about that anymore. You just really want to send a picture of your credit card to the number that just texted you. You reeeeaaalllly want to. Trust me, I’m your brain.)

writing-prompt-s:

you are ghost trying his best NOT to be scary while trapped in a subburban home. You are horribly clumbsy though and the family is starting to notice the things you knock over and the “ooooooOOOOuu’s” in the night as you stub your toes again and again

So, being a ghost kind of sucks. Especially when you were a clumsy human. Especially when you were so clumsy you died falling down the stairs. You weren’t even pushed. You just tripped on air, said “Shit!” incredibly loudly, fell, and, well, died. You were so embarrassed that when Death came to take your soul to the afterlife, you hid your face in your hands until they left. Didn’t matter how often Death said, “It’s okay,” or, “It’s fine.” or, “I once took a soul that died choking on a gummy bear, so your death wasn’t even that bad.” You just waited until they left, and then immediately realized your mistake. Now you’re stuck.

It’s pretty boring staying in the house. Three weeks after you died, some people came in, took out all your furniture, and redecorated. You don’t know where anything went. You have no living relatives, no will, and you can’t leave. At least when they redecorated they brought in a nicer TV than the shitty monster you used to have. It took a few days of testing your ghost-strength (or whatever the hell it is), but you can finally watch TV again. At least you’re caught up on America’s Got Talent.

One day, weeks or maybe months after you died, a gathering is had. A woman with an overly exaggerated smile shows lots of people around your house, and you belatedly realize it’s a realtor. ‘Shit,’ you think. You can barely control your abilities. One time you went too corporeal, stubbed your toe, and screamed so loud that a neighbor opened the door (which is permanently unlocked while the house is for sale) to see if anyone was inside. People are going to think your house is haunted! Well, it is… but not by a bad ghost! You are no bad ghost, thank you very much.

It is unfortunate then, that a lovely little family moves in not even a week later. The first night is fine. America’s Got Talent is on, but you are too afraid to use the TV. You don’t want this family to suspect anything. Once it hits 2 AM, though, you give up, and stick your hand on the TV screen. You found out two months into ghost-dom that the amount of energy it takes to hit each remote button is ridiculous, but touching the television lets you tap into its energy directly, and you don’t have to use your own. You visualize the recordings menu and click on the only episode there, which is the new one.

In the morning, the two daughters settle into the living room, while the mother and father make breakfast. You watch the father steal a piece of bacon enviously, suddenly missing food with a raw intensity. In a split second, the egg the mother was about to crack into a frying pan explodes, and she shouts as raw egg splurts in a three foot radius. The girls in the living room are completely ignorant to the whole thing.

“Wow, Margaret. Don’t know your own strength?” the dad laughs, because he’s a dad, so, of course.

For a second Margaret looks completely shocked and you think, ‘This is it, they’re gonna call an exorcist. I’m gonna die. Again.’ but then she also laughs and says, “You know how I am before my morning coffee!”

The egg exploded. Several feet. Very Unnaturally. And yet… Wow. 

They’re oblivious.

You decide to test your hypothesis with an experiment involving lots of shouting, but it turns out you don’t need to. The father opens up the recording menu on the television, probably to set things up for his own shows, and notices pre-set America’s Got Talent recordings.

“What’s this doing here?” he wonders aloud, and then he deletes everything.

“NO!” You scream, and three books fly off the bookshelf.

The dad startles at the crash, but when he gets up to put the books back, he only ‘hmm’s’ at the bookshelf and says, “A lot less sturdy than I remember. Oh well.” He goes back to the TV.

‘He can’t be that ignorant.’ you think, and with all your might, you turn your foot corporeal and kick the coffee table with as much strength as you can muster. “Fuck!” you shout immediately afterwards, but a human could only have heard the bang of your foot on the table, and not the cry of pain.

The father looks up at the noise, decides it’s nothing, and goes back to channel surfing.

Jesus Christ.

Your final test is on the two girls. You feel like a creeper going into their shared room when they’re asleep, but you just want to see if spooking them is possible, or if they’re just as oblivious as their parents. Then its back to the living room, so you can re-record your show. 

You focus your energy into your voice and give a loud shout. The girls hardly even twitch. You shout again.

“Be quiet.” One of them mutters.

“I didn’t say anything. You did.” the other girl mumbles, just a bit more awake.

“Oh stuff it, Tiffany. Just shut up and go back to sleep.”

“You shut up! I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes you did!” 

“No I didn’t!”

There’s silence for a few moments before both girls say “Whatever,” in unison and rollover, backs facing each other.

“Seriously?” you whisper with the last of your energy.

One of the girls mumbles “Shut up,” but your form fades out before they start arguing again.

So… it turns out having a family living in your house isn’t too bad. They’re all completely oblivious to any and all noise you make, no matter how many times you accidentally go corporeal and trip. Or when you angrily throw their shoes down the stairs because you keep tripping over them. You still have America’s Got Talent, and the whole family is usually out and about the same time Freeform marathons Harry Potter.

All in all, life – or, well, death – isn’t so bad.

writing-prompt-s:

The flat Earth society has started a cult that sacrifices people by throwing them off the edge of the Earth. You are their first victim.

You blink open your eyes, groaning at the sudden pain you feel on your forehead. “What happened?” You mumble.

There is shuffling in front of you. “-is awake,” you hear a distant voice say.

Suddenly you’re sopping wet, a bucket landing dully at your feet. “What the FUCK,” you exclaim.

Your hands are handcuffed behind you, and your feet are tied to the chair you’ve just woken up in.

In front of you is a group of five people, all wearing masks and what look like Jedi robes made by a not-very-creative cosplayer. “We are the Flat Earth Society, and you are our sacrifice.”

You can’t help but burst out laughing, “What… the hell-” you manage to get out between giggles, “-are you talking about? The Earth is round!”

You can’t see the faces of this so called society, but if you could, you know they would have just shut down. That was the wrong thing to say.

“The Earth is FLAT!” An angry member of the small cult shouts, “And you are our sacrifice! We shall drop you over the edge of the Earth to appease It!”

“Okay, sure,” you say. 

Obviously, these people are your kidnappers, which is pretty fucked up, but they also think the world is flat and throwing you off the edge will be somehow beneficial, so it’s not like they can actually kill you. In theory. Maybe you can convince them a small ditch is the edge of the world and just crawl out the other side. Hell, even a small ledge would be fine. You’d suffer a broken leg if it meant you could just go the fuck home.

“Why… are you so readily agreeable to be our sacrifice? Do you understand our cause?”

“Ha, no.” You say impulsively. You immediately and internally wince, trying to channel old acting skills from that one time you joined theater club. “I mean… yes. I’m ready to be your sacrifice, and I even know where the edge of the world is. I can take you there. It’s-”

The apparent leader of the society speaks, interrupting what you thought was a convincing spiel, “We already know where the edge of the world is.”

They say this menacingly. You wonder if you should be scared.

“Um, okay.”

“It’s what your people call The Grand Canyon.”

Your first thought is ‘”Your people?“ Dude, you’re also human.‘ 

Your second thought, one you voice aloud, is "Fuck.”