forum Writing Prompts

Started May 02, 2019 by @Bandito

tune

It was good.

Glad someone is following this thread!

Kaiman glanced around the wreckage through the screens lighting the otherwise dark room.
“Disgusting,” he said to the other person watching with him from the screens of her own planet.
From the speakers came a cynical laugh. “That’s what happens with the lords we have now. Nothing but senseless destruction and a twist of nauseating bureaucracy.”
Kaiman pressed a button, showing her face, the age beginning to truly show on his face bringing his own youth to contrast.
He frowned, “There wasn’t a good reason for war on that planet was there, Qiria.”
Her face was as hard as his, but time had erased all the naive hopefulness out of her life, leaving her with nothing but cold eyes and a faithlessness in all the humanoid species.
“No,” she finally said quietly, sadness leaking into her otherwise calculated tone. “A minor rule of a trade agreement broken. Some wealth was lost.” She clenched her teeth, “Nothing worth this though. These were good people. Innocent.” As she paused, Kaiman remembered she had spent ten revolutions -her time- on the same planet that was now ruined. For the next twenty revolutions, he thought, the capital city in complete disarray, the ruling family nearly all dead.
“There has to be a better way then this.” He said, “Someone could change it- Make things better.”
Qiria shook her head. “No one can change it Kaiman. The world does not change. It merely repeats the same, sad, twisted story. An everlasting loop,” she said bitterly.
She stared at him, then smiled sadly. “Only an earthquake can change what is set in stone.” She ended the call without waiting for his response, and so did not see the smile growing on his face.
“So,” he said to himself in the now completely dark room. “An earthquake.” The ghost of a smile flickered around his face. “Here we come.” And below him the earth trembled.

Peter ran through the thick woods, the same woods he once played in and wished that magic was real. He now wished with all his mind that it wasn't real, he wished he could go back to the days where he would use twigs and leaves to pretend there was magic. But no, it's real, he messed with it and now he would have to try and fix it or face the consequences. Peter stopped running, panting and out of breath in front of the old cottage, hidden in the rocks of the mountain. He desperately banged his fists on the wooden door which looked as though it would break with the slightest push but somehow it was sturdy as the grand doors that protected the castle. After a few minutes, banging on the door and shouting to the person inside the door swung open. Peter rushed inside and saw the old man that he knew as The Wizard standing by a bowl of water. "Please sir I messed up, I messed up very bad!" Peter pleaded, his heart pounding in his chest. "I know you did, I told you not to mess with that well Peter but you did it anyways." The wizards deep voice thick with disappointment and a hint of sadness. "Please there has to be something you can do!" He shouted desperately. "A curse is a curse Peter, only an earthquake can change what's set in stone."

Thirteen: Even your shadow won't follow you into darkness.

What's in hell? Nobody knows. Some say monsters and demons of evil. Others say nothing, just a still void waiting to be disturbed. Others say a flaming or freezing hellscape. Everybody has there own idea of what it looks like. But I've been there. It is not a place you ever want to go or be. Everything about it that others is true all at the same time. It is a place of darkness and pain. with no one to scream to. So please be good. Because even your own shadow won't follow you into that darkness.

I did a lot of bad things as a kid and I fully expected to burn in Hell for all of them. I thought they'd take my soul a lot sooner then they did, but I guess the sayings are true… only the good die young. I would have wished to, but fate had not given me that kind of mercy. I hadn't started out as a demon, but I had definitely become one. No baby comes from their mothers womb infected, but sometimes, they get the good ones. My mom used to tell me she loved me. She used to hold my face between her hands and tell me I was the most beautiful child in the world and that I would become something great. This wasn't the great I'd been expecting. At six, my mother took herself from us. None of us had known she'd been depressed, but after that my father got less intentional. He quickly lost all the money we had and sent me off when he could only afford to take care of himself. The hellish demon I became wasn't enough to push my old life from my head. My shadow followed me everywhere. It haunted me, peering over my shoulder or walking out in front of me. I had no choice but to become the orphan kid, running through the street stealing bread and other foods from merchants carts. I did have a choice to start murdering though. Some people become more empathetic when bad things happen to them. I know, I know, I obviously didn't. I'm one of those ones. I was friends with one of the good ones. I don't know if friends is the right word for it. Allies. Until he got what I wanted. I was thirteen when I murdered for the first time and it had been my friend. I emptied all his pockets into mine and left him to rot under the bench in that alleyway. I continued on this way for a while, until I decided to give up. I stopped eating and would lay, leaned against the brick walls of back buildings. I didn't want to end my own life like my mother had before me, instead waiting to be taken from starvation. The gods would not take me. I survived five weeks without food. Maybe I really was a demon. I continued on after that, looking for trouble wherever I could, starting bar fights and obviously cheating in card games and at gambling tables. I was twenty when I left the city, looking for an ancient cave said to possess creatures of extreme strength, hoping maybe one of them would best me. I stood at the mouth of the cave, and I walked inside, into the pitch black darkness. My shadow didn't follow me there. When the ancient beast tore me apart, I wished I could have died with my mother. Like I said, I expected to burn in Hell, maybe I'd become a demon of Hell myself and would serve on Satan's hellish crusade. Instead, when I died, the first thing I saw beneath my eyelids was my mom. When I opened them, she was still there. My shadow had followed me here.

Not bad my dude.

Nice! Like how it's the narrator telling their story.

Fourteen: As he was valiant, I honor him. But as he was ambitious, I killed him.

Oooooh! I like!

Prompt: As he was Valiant, I honor him, but as he was ambitious, I killed him.

The gigantic, dark blue beast stood there, wings torn and limp on either side of it. In its jaws, it held the slender neck of another just like it, except the other dragon's scales were a pure white except for the red stains, blood. The blue dragon released its hold, the lifeless body crumpling before it.
The white dragon's jaw was twisted, wings mangled. Its throat was completely torn out, blood flooding the cobblestones, seeping into the cracks. What had once been bright blue eyes were glassed over, dull and lifeless. Broken spines were upon its back, charred black scales in places.

The blue dragon slowly slid back onto his haunches. His breaths were ragged, labored. The beast's own form was covered in jagged wounds from the other's claws and fangs. Ice cold blood seeped from the wounds, running across the blue scales, dripping silently to the stones beneath him. His gaze never left the broken body before him.
"…I'm s-s-sorry dear brother…I-I had not planned f-f-for this…I was hoping…h-hoping you would have…m-m-more sense…"
Slowly, vacuous yellow eyes closed. Thin streams of smoke rose from the beast's nostrils, "Y-you were always valiant…b-b-brave in any situation…I honor you…b-b-but you became ambitious…too ambitious…"
The dragon became silent. There was not a sound, the birds having gone silent during the battle, the wildlife swiftly evacuating to safety. The only sound was the soft whisper of the wind that blew through the destroyed village. He remained still for sometime, before slowly his eyes once again opened.
"I tried to stop…s-stop you…but I-I-I was too late…so I was forced…to kill you…"
His eyes shined, a shaky rumble coming from deep in his chest. A shimmer, then a drop as a tear slipped off the side of the beast's muzzle.
"P-please forgive me…brother…it w-w-was not suppose to be like this…"

"Why?" She screamed as she clutched her brother in her arms. Tears ran down her face as she shook, both with sadness and anger.
"Because I had too!" The hero yelled back. He too had tears running down his face.
"He was just trying to make a difference! He was doing the right thing!" She yelled.
"But he was doing it the wrong way!" He yelled back. "He had to be stopped." The hero dried his tears and turned his back. "He was valiant, I honor him. But as he was ambitious as well. Too ambitious. I had to kill him." He said as he walks off, leaving her to her grieving.

Fifteen: In the end, no one heard the truth.

Sixteen: The true villain was the one no one even knew existed.

Seventeen: There's two sides to every story, I wish I knew yours

(Dear lord, it's been so long since I wrote something, let alone something like flash fiction. Hope this is good!)

"Go on, then." Sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, weapon lying several feet out of reach, the eyes peering through the gap of the helmet were still calm. "You've won. It's well within your rights to kill me, after what I've done."
For a long moment, the woman held her sword over her enemy's throat, and where they had shown no fear, her face was a story of grief and fury and fear and hope, playing out over her eyes and cheeks like dancers on a stage. In her grimace, the person on the ground could see the pain she'd been through, the determination she held. Almost disinterestedly, they watched, wondering what death would feel like.
The sword wavered, then dropped, the tip burying deep into the moss-covered dirt of the clearing they'd fought in.
"Not yet." The woman made no move to help her opponent up, and so they stayed on the ground and arched an eyebrow at her in confusion.
"And just what does that mean?"
The woman sighed deeply, tossing down her shield, its hardy wood covered in fresh scars. "There's two sides to every story," she said. "Sometimes more."
"What do stories have to do with duels between a criminal and a hero?"
"See, that's your side." She flashed a grin at them, and they finally sat up, confused by the turn the day had taken. "My side, this is just a story of a well-known mercenary getting asked to do another impossible job. Boring, almost, until I actually got to fight you. I wish I knew yours."
They frowned. "You want me to recount the fight we just had?"
The woman leaned back in laughter at that, and if her armor had been less well-made it would have spelled her end, a quick knife to the gap between throat guard and chest plate… but her suit defended every inch of her skin, as did her reputation. Without their weapon, trying to fight back was useless.
"I don't just want to hear about the fight," she finally said, grinning back down at them. "I want to hear about you. What made you do all this, what you were thinking, what you did when you were away from all other people. I want to know it all." They pondered for a moment, thinking back. In the end, it was at least a tactic to live a while longer.
And the woman intrigued them. Despite the lack of interest the world held, this woman and her desire to know, the emotions her face had held before she refrained from murder- it all made them curious.
"Two sides to every story…" they muttered before nodding and looking up at her, voicing their thoughts without restraint. She was still going to kill them, after all; why not indulge a bit? "I just wish I knew yours."
The woman blinked in surprise, straightening up slightly from where she'd leaned against her sword. "Really? Well then." Her smile returned, and she sheathed her sword to sit on the ground a few feet away from them. "After you."

Whoaaaaa I love this!!! I really want to hear what comes next, pleaseeeee write more if you have time? Honestly the only 'problem' I can think of is that you called the villain 'they', it works fine and it's not actually bad, just unusual. But this is so awesomeeeeeee!!!

He stood silently, clad in black alone. A bundle of white daisies hand by his side. He could feel the damp morning dew from the grass seeping into his shoes but he didn't make any effort to move. He stared down at the gravestone ahead of him, eyes brimmed with tears that he was fighting to hold back. Tyler Reeves, 2001-2019, brother, son, friend. He felt as though he were seeing the words for the first time, it had only been a week. Grass was just starting to sprout from the rectangle of dirt laying by his feet. It may have only been a week but it felt like a lifetime. The tears fell from his eyes but his face did not change from his blank, hurt expression. He quickly wiped the tears with the sleeve of his jacket and gently set the flowers in front of the stone. There are two sides to every story, I wish I knew yours.

@Bandito I'm glad you like it! I did have specific OCs of mine in mind for this which is why the person on the ground is a they and not a he or she, but I ended up just liking it better without names. And if I have time, I'll definitely be writing more for this, or just for this thread in general! I really miss having little prompts like these to just work on, brings me back to my writing roots on the Writer's Digest website XD

Nice stuff Cluttered! I enjoyed it.

Eighteen: I didn't belong here.

(Continuation of my last prompt!)
They were looking at the mercenary, but the murderer's eyes were seeing the past; remembering, sorting, choosing what would be told. The woman waited patiently. She'd seen this first step of the story many times.
It took a long time for them to start talking, but when they did she was enraptured.
"I've been many places in my life, from wilderness to great cities, southern mountains to northern tundras, all types of lands and people. This land, these countries, are all so rich and diverse. But no matter where I went, I always had the same thought: I didn't belong here. Whether here was a small town with a three-room tavern or a great lord's castle or an army barrack or an abandoned farm in the middle of nowhere, I just… didn't fit right. Never meshed, always on the outskirts."
"On the fringe," said the woman, understanding. "Like your name."
"Exactly." Fringe smiled, a surprisingly nice look. "I didn't start calling myself that until after I killed a few innocent people. Then, I was still someone who didn't want that reputation, so I chose a different name. Now, it's the only one people know, and I frankly don't give a shit. A name is a name, and I’ve grown into Fringe quite well."
The woman leaned forward, puzzled, but before she could ask Fringe answered her question. "I do still know my old name, but I don't use it. No one will associate it with me, and besides, it's not important to my story."
"Right." She leaned back again, shifting to settle her sheathed sword across her thighs. Again, the murderer glanced at her armor, the way it protected every inch of her skin even when sat and contorted like this. Whoever had crafted it was an artist, understanding the buyer as well as the medium.
Fringe wanted to know so much about the mercenary and her armor.
Which meant, of course, that they needed to keep talking. About the places they'd been, the people they met, about the boy…
Kyle. Even after all these years, talking about Kyle still felt wrong, under all Fringe's stoic expressions and their uncaring, hardened heart. Even back then, Fringe hadn't deserved Kyle and his kindness, his willingness to change a whole village just to show Fringe what belonging felt like. They hadn't been a murderer then, just a killer, in self defense only; they hadn't known how dark the riches of the world could be. They had never deserved him.
But the mercenary was waiting to hear, to eventually speak. And Fringe's story wasn't complete without Kyle, without the story of their friendship and the little forest town and the realization that no matter what, Fringe was never going to belong anywhere. The story wasn't complete without explaining what Kyle had done for them, how much he'd risked, how hard he had tried to make a place where Fringe could belong.
Wasn't complete, they knew, without explaining why they had killed him.

Ooooh! So good.

"I don't belong here." The girl on the roof said. The boy next to her twitched.
"W-Why don't y-you? Y-Your ju-just like us. You k-kill people." He said, twitching as talked.
"Because!" She yelled "I hate it! I can´t like killing people!" She exclaimed.
He grabbed her hand. "L-look! I don't like i-i-it eith-er! B-ut we h-ha-ve too!" He yelled back, his twitches getting worse.
The girl looked at him and began to cry. She didn't want this life. He began to cry a bit as well.
"No-None of us b-belong h-h-here but we c-an't leave."
They sat like that for a while, lying on the roof and crying.

(What the f#@% did I just write?)

Nineteen: Some say they used to be human once…

(College is kicking my butt, but I've been thinking about this prompt all week and I'm excited to finally write it! Also sorry it's long, I really struggle writing short things.)

Fringe blinked, thoughts of Kyle as easily dismissed as always.
The mercenary was staring at them, a single eyebrow raised in confusion. Her sword still glittered across her lap, and for a moment the light dazzled Fringe's eyes. Was that something that the mercenary actually used to her advantage, blinding her enemies with her sword like the legends said? Did she keep it sparkling as a reminder of her reputation? Did she just hate the sight of blood dripping off the metal?
Probably, it wasn't even something she thought about. A clean sword was a good one, after all. But Fringe wanted to know if it was the sort of thing she kept in mind.
"You're a good storyteller. I really appreciate the dramatic pauses." Her words dripped with sarcasm in the long-standing silence. "That was quite the look you had there, for a moment. Thought you were going to go berserk and try to kill me again or something."
Fringe snorted. "According to folk tales and legends, I don't lose control."
"Some of the legends also say you used to be human, once. Emphasis on 'once'." The woman drummed her fingertips on the smooth curve of her metal calf. "According to folk tales and legends, you're a monster."
"Maybe they're right," the murderer mused. "What kind of person doesn't belong anywhere? Who truly feels nothing when they kill, or even when they exist? Some people have tried to label me, psychopath or deranged or other such things, but none of them feel quite right. I don’t think very many people could truly understand me. I was ready to die, just now. I wouldn't even be talking to you if I wasn't interested to learn."
Again, the woman spoke with sarcasm. "So glad I'm interesting enough to pique the curiosity of one of folklore's deadliest modern villains."
"But of course you would."
"What?"
"Look at you." Fringe leaned forwards, dark eyes wide, staring, eager. "If I'm the deadliest villain, you're certainly one of the deadliest heroes. The woman mercenary, in her shining armor, with a sword so bright it's said the sun itself fears its edge. And who am I? Fringe, the monster on the outskirts, the thing with no name; but you, you don't even need one."
"I have a name," she protested, her mouth turning down in a scowl. "I'm not like you."
"Aren't you? We both kill. At this rate, you've even probably killed more than I have. Neither of us have a reason to; you're definitely rich enough to do nothing for the rest of your life. And we're nothing, really. I'm just a monster, and you're just a woman in a suit of armor, and the world touches neither of us." It had always been the armor that interested the murderer. The armor covered every sliver of skin, every joint weak with cartilage and bone, showing just enough of her face to keep fear out of peoples' hearts. The armor cut her off from everything, and yet she moved in it so comfortably. Like it was a part of her.
"What's your point?" Her voice was irritable, and Fringe remembered a few minutes ago, when she'd shown a hundred emotions in a few seconds before setting her sword aside. "What's all this got to do with your story?"
"You wanted to hear my side of the legends. My origins, my reasons, my thoughts." Fringe spread their hands, palms up as if to calm her. "I'm thinking perhaps our sides aren't so different as you think, when you look at them up close. I gave up my humanity, although I'm not quite sure what that means, and you hid yours away in that armor. What’s so different about that, when you think about it? A few different choices and we could be in each other's spot this very moment."
Silence followed their speech. Fringe watched the woman, her head bent to stare at her sword.
"I think," she finally said, "that when you get close enough to the details of my story, you'll learn that it's nothing like yours."
She looked up, and her face was as blank as Fringe had felt when the sword hovered over their heart.
"Prove it," they challenged, eyes never leaving the mercenary's. There was something like fascination in their chest, beating against their ribs, demanding to be let out.
She stared back, her expression still of nothing, and said, “My name is who I am, not what I have become, and my name is Elise.”

Once more, congratulations on a good piece.

yes that was stunning as usual!

Twenty: I wish I was royal

One: You will never be a god.

_{ack- ok i'm late to this thread but i saw this one and-}

he lay there, broken and mangled under the clear blue sky.
"why?" he croaked out, tears slowly sliding down his face.
"why did you turn me away? have i not proved myself?"
the dark figure of Death ignored his pain, slowly moving closer.
"but i'm your son!" he sobbed out to the heavens, hoping for his father to hear his cries.
no one answered. Death moved closer.
the ground burned around him, the collapsing buildings falling silent. all he could hear was the wind.
he hiccuped in pain and anguish one last time before shutting his eyes tight. Death lunged forward.
the last thing he heard was a strong voice echoing in his mind.

"you will never be a god."