Take Pete’s car, drive over to Mum’s, go in, take care of Philip, then grab Mum, go over to Lizs place, hole up, have a cup of tea and wait for this whole thing to blow over.
he hero got pulled form his ordinary high school life to save the Kingdom. He defeats the evil Emperor, Lych etc. and the good wizzard and pretty elven princess are eager to send him home again. The hero is having none of it. He wants his Kingdom.
A PTSD support group for those who survive horror movie scenarios .
Darth Vader’s imperial fleet encounters a new plane, 2015 A.D. Earth.
You haven’t cleaned your room & your mother is pisse, slapping you literally into next week. You discover you can time travel forward into the future but only through physical violence inflicted upon yourself by others. One day you decide to kill yourself.
Something involving an accidental pepper spraying. And I thought I’d mix it up with adding the characters from Odd Team Out.
Describe a day in the life of Dwight Schrute, in a world where everyone else is also Dwight Schrute.
The villain finally win and kills the protagonist. People around the world celebrate.
Your entire life has theme music. Every day up until now it has been upbeat and melodic, today you wake up and it is sad and ominous.
You are a real magician who has made a living convincing the world you are the best illusionist alive. Recently, you performed a inexplicable trick and people are starting to catch on.
There’s only so long you can take a shady guy in a leather jacket following you around.
For Jean McStone, a whole block and all the way through the building to her apartment was quite enough. More than enough.
Despite her racing heartbeat, she forced her thoughts to stay calm and her hands steady. She had her training. This guy didn’t stand a chance when it came down to it. Jean could have him down in ten seconds flat.
If she wanted. There was no need to attack, though. Just do what needed to be done.
She glanced over her shoulder, trying to make it look like she was looking at something else, but watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her. Was he smiling? Goosebumps tickled her arms.
Aliens have fired a giant laser towards Earth. Upon being struck , instead of destroying Earth, all forms of tea and coffee can no longer be brewed.
You have been accepted into the elite society. You have been paid millions per month for doing nothing. You ‘re best friends with the president. However, there’s a cost. You must murder someone every single month. If you’re caught, you are executed on the spot.
You are the first person to walk on Mars. But just as you step on the soil, your intercom says “Help us”.
Write two stories – the first in which a seemingly inconsequential decision leads a man to the best day of his life, and the second in which making the opposite decision leads him to his untimely death
A colossal monster has just surfaced out the deep underground ocean from the Mediterranean Sea. As it reaches land, while an enormous military force is at standby the creature yells out your name and its heard half across the world . What happens now?
The numbers came to the familiar 21 and 22. Jean stopped at Cobalt’s door, looked up at the numbers and reached into her bag where the keys were. The blur in her periphery slowed his step and she swallowed.
She felt the keys, but fumbled past them. Throwing stars. A knife. A gun. No . . . he hadn’t done anything. Just scare him off. Her hand closed around the small can of pepper spray instead. No more than necessary. It will do the job.
“Hey . . .” came a voice from behind her. A hint of amusement played in the man’s voice.
Jean stiffened reflexively. She’d taken her eyes off of him. Her grip tightened on the can and she ducked her head, looking like she was pulling out the keys.
“Do you . . .” the man began again.
After 10 long years of being dead, you wake up alive on the night of the zombie apocalypse. One problem. Your coffin wn’t open .
Write a story where each sentence has one more word than the last.
In a world where magic is chanted aloud, your lisp is impeding your dreams of being a wizard.
Every ten years from age twenty until death, you from ten years earlier appears in your bedroom. You have five minutes to explain how to change your life before young you returns to the past.
Convert your favorite scene from your favorite movie into a sonnet, while attempting to preserve the themes, twist, and pacing from the original scene.
Jean didn’t let him finish. She whirled around in a blink with the pepper spray up and aimed. A direct shot, straight into his eyes.
He stumbled backwards with a yell, both of his hands going to his face. Muffled curses came out from in between his fingers and he went to his knees, rubbing frantically at his eyes.
Jean reached back in, grabbing the keys to Cobalt’s apartment and spun back around to unlock the door. Just as she reached with the keys, the door swung open to show a confused looking Cobalt.
“What on earth? Who . . .?” he craned his neck to look around her and blinked.
Jean pushed Cobalt, trying to get around him and into the apartment. “He was following me,” she explained quickly, “Cobalt, let me in, now.”
For as long as you can remember, you’ve had that scar. You stopped noticing it. Then, one morning, you’re pretty sure it’s in a different spot. You shake it off, but every morning it moves a little closer to your heart.
Two god-like beings, disguised as old men , play a game of chess on a park bench to decide the final fate of humanity. The players, however, are distracted by a couple seated across them …
A parallel world just like Earth except you gain the memories of everything you digest. All humans have this trait and it applies to all vegetables, fungi and animal “memories”.
When people turn 20 , they get to meet their guardian angel . It’s your 20th birthday, you finally get to meet the angel that’s been protecting you, and you’re horrified by what you see.
Through the power of an all-knowing being, you are allowed to know one thing or everything about one subject. However, you do not have the ability to tell anyone, meaning you can not speak it, write i , hint at it, etc. How does this change the way you look at things related to that subject?
“You . . .?” Cobalt looked between Jean and the man on the floor in the hall. “You pepper sprayed him?”
The man moaned in agony, thumping his forehead on the carpeted floor over and over again.
“Yes. Cobalt . . .” Jean got one leg into the apartment and bit her lip, trying to edge past more. “Let me in.”
“What the hell, kid . . .” came the man’s cracked voice. “I’m . . . I live right down the hall . . . I was trying to . . . augh . . .” he arched back, still rubbing at his eyes, “You got the extra-spicy or something here, didn’t you? Holy smoooke . . .” the curses started up again.
Cobalt gave Jean another horrified look as she finally got through the door. “In his eyes? That’d hurt even worse than the time I thought it was breath freshener . . .”
Jean ignored Cobalt, but froze at the man’s words, looking back. “You’re down the hall? Good grief . . . I’m . . . I’m so sorry . . . here . . .” she pulled Cobalt out of the door and went back to help the man in the leather jacket up. “We’ve got some soap and water . . . you can wash it out if you want, Mister . . .?”
In the world of magic, some people discriminate against others based on what type of magic they use. You, a closet necromancer, are about to come out to your devout holy mage parents.
A man sits on a bench in the middle of a park. Out of boredom, he imagines a back story for every person who crosses his path. He sees a couple jogging toward him in matching sweatsuits…
A bank robber finds a girl he took hostage cute and shyly asks her out on a date.
A genius has been cursed to only speak one syllable words. How does this affect their life?
After this, nobody will be able to say “stranger things have happened”.
“D-Dankworth. Wolfg . . . auuugh my eyes . . .” he curled partway up to rub his eyes as Jean helped him up.
“That’s . . . an interesting name,” Cobalt commented, pulling the door open wider as the two came through. “Wolfgaaaughmyeyes. Never heard anything like it. What is that, Scandinavian?”
“Shut up,” came the response.
“Cobalt . . .” Jean gave him a look, “Get some soap please.”
a drabble that starts in the basement and ends on the roof.
It’s strange, Jimin wonders as he perches himself on the edge of the bed, all tied up with black silk ribbons, how Jeongguk can just whip out a sketchbook from thin air and start drawing Jimin like he was born to do it. Jimin wouldn’t doubt the man was.
Maybe a better word for it is…attractive, not strange. But an odd way of appeal.
Jimin knows how sinful he looks, really. He happens to know in vivid detail of how much Jeongguk enjoys Jimin with binds and blindfolds and many, many other things. Jimin knows how Jeongguk likes to capture every vulnerable moment of himself with lines of charcoal and graphite, maybe even pastels if he’s feeling extra romantic.
Jeongguk steals a quick glance at Jimin’s torso, sketching the fine dips and curves of Jimin’s chest and the silk that covers it. His cheeks tint a pinkish color and he looks away to cough into a fist, “why are you so gorgeous, love?”
Jimin can’t help but smile, “you have made me into art. That is why, my handsome prince. Your binds of silk have casted beauty across my very being and I am magnificent now. A piece of artwork by your very hands.”
Jeongguk stares. And stares. And then he finally smiles that wide, bunny-toothed smile that makes Jimin’s chest ache, “my love, you are the art. I have only added onto a masterpiece.”
Jimin giggles wholeheartedly, “oh, darling, you flatter.”
“For you, my sweet serenity, deserve every compliment to leave the world’s lips, my gorgeous love. Beautiful and all, perfectly bound, mine.”
I’m ready to do my own thing, and they can keep me around or throw me away, either way I’ll manage.
Hanamaki appears at Matsukawa’s doorstep drunk as fuck and asking to stay the night. Matsukawa says yes, obviously, because Hanamaki was hilarious drunk and a goldmine of memes that were worthy of posting on Snapchat for the population to enjoy. He expects the night to end with Hanamaki’s head in the toilet. And it does, but so does something else.
And we always need more Dankworth siblings, so I went with that. I think Wolfgang’s about 15-16 in this one?
As the older brother, I took it upon myself to make sure that my siblings got the best entertainment possible while Mom and Dad were on date night.
Peter wanted to play hide and go seek. Now, the best way to do that was to make me the seeker. Both of them wanted to hide . . . and it always took them an eternity to find me if one of them was the seeker . . . so the choice was obvious.
Didn’t really occur to me until later that I was kind of being the anti-babysitter by covering my eyes and ignoring my charges while they went and hid from me. Next time, we’re playing Go-fish or something.
“We start in the basement,” Peter commanded, grabbing my jacket and tugging me towards the stairs.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Why, exactly?”
“Because. It’s a good place to start.” Peter jumped down the stairs like some crazy-haired little bouncy ball.
Eloisa hung by my elbow as we descended after him into the damp coldness. Her face looked pale in the dark. She looked up at me, “D’you think there are rats?”
Ellie made a face at me and uncuffed my leather jacket sleeve so it hung down past my hand. I cuffed it back as we hit the bottom step.
“so what am I counting to?” I looked around the basement, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. Ellie still stood right near me and tugged on her two braids.
“Fifty-five and a half,” Peter answered with a grin.
“How do I even . . .”
“Readysetgo!” Peter and Eloisa both darted off. I sighed and covered my eyes. I heard two doors slam shut and small footsteps receding. I counted out loud at first, but trailed off around twenty and just counted the rest in my head.
Fifty-three . . . fifty-four . . . fifty-five . . . and a half.
“Ready or not, here I come!” My voice echoed.
I tromped up the stairs and over into the kitchen, making a dramatic show of opening and closing various closets and cupboards. Eloisa had mentioned earlier to me what a perfect hiding spot it was under the kitchen sink. And, sure enough, there she was. Curled up like a kitten next to the dish soap.
And then we started the quest for Peter, who usually giggled and gave himself away. But ten minutes later, I was starting to get worried. He wasn’t in the laundry basket . . . he wasn’t in Dad’s closet . . . he wasn’t in my dresser . . . those were usually the three spots . . .
I frowned and ran a hand over my hair. Ellie emerged from the dining room with a worried look, “Where is he?”
I shook my head, cupping my hands over my mouth. “Peter! You win! Come out now!”
A faint squeal came in response. “Help meee!”
Eloisa and I exchanged a look before both running outside.
And there he was. On the top of the roof, holding onto the chimney for dear life and looking down at us with eyes as wide as a dragonfly’s.
I swore and Ellie stared at me.
“Help me,” Peter whispered.
I jogged over and started the climb up our woodpile to the roof. My feet slipped a couple of times as I walked the ridge to get to him, but a few minutes later, I sat next to him.
“Holy smoke, Pete. What were you . . .?”
Peter grinned at me shakily. “I still win, right?”
Red was what you wrapped around you. Red was your armour. Red was your protector, and also your downfall.
So yep. I did that. And it got cut a bit shorter than I thought but whatever.
Stealing flowers is generally a mean thing to do.
I mean, you’ve got some people who pin their pride on the two sad little irises in a pot on their front steps. Taking those is not just mean, it’s extremely obvious.
when they have a bloated snowbank of blossoms, growing right next to the curb . . . and it’s on the way to the cemetery . . . they’re kind of asking for it.
Seriously, I could pinch flowers from that yard until doomsday and no one could tell. That is, with the premise that no one saw me do it.
And I should know better than to count on my luck at this point in my life.
I was taking my usual route by and slowed my walk on the way past the flower fortress. Coming to a stop, I looked down over the flowers, considering which colors to grab.
Usually I barely even slowed down and just snatched up whatever was nearby, but . . . I don’t know. Today needed something a bit better than that.
There were a couple of pretty reddish-purple ones that looked nice.
I stooped over and picked them. The other flowers pressed in around and filled the hole quite nicely.
But just as I straightened, a quiet voice spoke, freezing my muscles.
“Are you taking my flowers?”
I swore mentally, starting to turn towards the voice. “W-well . . . I . . .”
There . . . her hands on her hips, her lips pursed and a floppy hat on her head . . . was Abby. The nurse who mostly knew me as a delirious invalid.
She tipped her head and her eyebrows went up. A smile broke across her small, red-tinted lips. “Wolfgang?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it and swallowed, shifting on my feet. My hand holding the flowers went automatically behind my back. I forced a smile. “Abby! Hi . . . how’s . . . stuff?”
“Well, gardening day was going pretty well,” her eyes went to the flowerbed I’d just profaned, then back up to me with a slight smile. “You’re not usually the posy-picking type, Mr. Dankworth. Who’s the lucky girl?”
My dead mom. My love life isn’t as vibrant as some.
“Um . . . she’s . . .” I ran my free hand over my hair and tried to think of a good way to explain it.
Abby lowered her voice and her eyes sparkled. “Is she pretty?”
“She has to be to merit flower theft,” she reasoned. Setting down the garden spade, she came by my side. “Come on, take me to see her. It’s my flowers, after all.”
She has long black and purple hair that she keeps in space buns. The backpack thrown over her shoulder has pins of aliens all over it.
Murder victims can now be brought back to life temporarily for 24 hours to testify in court. You’ve now been falsely accused by the dead person whom you’ve hated.
Start the story with the sentence, “Have you ever seen a clown that looked better with the make-up on?”
When you reach the age of 25, you will respawn back to 25 anytime you die. When you reach age 50, you no longer respawn if you die.
It’s the future, and people no longer die from aging. Barring accidents and murders, death is now a choice. Today, you’re attending a funeral, because last week, your best friend for hundreds of years, had chosen just that.