Category: Prompts

Sugar

On By MaryIn Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

I haven’t done the story prompts in awhile! I’m going to try to ease in with a short silly one off of these prompt cards. The cards were “person with a toothache” and “revenge” and this is the kind of lame, super short result.

Also, I am shifting the prompt writing to Wednesdays owing to things that will conflict with a Tuesday update.

          “We won’t be able to get you in for another month. We’re all booked up,” the receptionist said, her brow creased with feigned empathy.

          Jack glared at her. “But this is an emergency! I’m in pain! Can’t they at least write a prescription for me?”

          She smiled sympathetically and said that she would talk to one of the dentists about a prescription, but that they were all occupied at the moment. “I’ll call you once I have an answer from one of them. And if someone cancels, we’ll make sure to call you about the opening first.”

          “And what do I do in the meantime? This cavity or whatever it is, it feels unbearable.”

          “Maybe lay off the sugar?”

He narrowed his eyes at her and left. The second he got home and entered the kitchen, the sugar dish caught his eye. He fumed, thinking about how long he would have to wait to be treated for the ache in his jaws.

Jack gathered all the sugar in the house and returned to the dentists’ office. It was late enough now that the remaining cars likely only belonged to staff. He poured as much of the sugar as he could into each of the tanks and left. After all, he had to get rid of the sugar somehow.

Last Kiss

On By MaryIn Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

Card prompts were motivational speaker and last, best kiss.

Kind of churned this one out quickly, didn’t care much for it.

          Mark had been a motivational speaker most of his adult life. It had been a surprisingly easy gig to slip into – he’d always been good at talking his way into and out of things, ever since he had learned his first words. Part of it was that the truth never got in the way of a good story or a convincing lie. It wasn’t that the things he was talking about weren’t good and true in and of themselves. He spoke at schools and at corporate events and to drug addicts, helped to encourage people in their lives and their goals and to set an example. And if he needed to seem personally invested to help set that example – to discuss overcoming addiction as though he had once overcome such a debilitation himself, and still struggled valiantly with it daily – well, giving people hope was the crux of the position. They needed the hope more than they needed absolute truths.

          Janet was the opposite. She had always been mousy and quiet, easily ignored or spoken over. Even here and now in the apocalypse, most people ignored her, preferring to listen to Mark. And she had to admit – he was easy to listen to. Easy to believe. She always had a knack for sniffing out the bullshit in the pretty things he said though. Maybe that was why, despite their differences, they had come together. They strangely complemented each other. Janet was practical, a steady presence that kept Mark grounded as he somehow rose to a leadership position in their little group of survivors. And despite the white lies that accompanied Mark’s speeches, Janet could always sense that he truthfully had hope for them. For their survival.

          And it was hope that they especially needed. Civilization wiped out, and the remaining pockets of humanity hunted and destroyed. The creatures that hunted them seemed alien, but no one really knew where they came from or why they were there. They acted like savage animals, but worked together in groups, always seemed to be at least 3 steps ahead. They were relentless. Still, there was hope. There were other groups. Humanity, Mark assured everyone, would persist as it always did.

Then the group had started losing contact with the other known settlements, one after the other. Sometimes it was suggested that maybe the communications equipment was no longer working, but those that knew how these things worked were certain – the equipment was fine. There was no one on the other end to answer. The map in the situation room looked grim – community after community crossed out with x after x. Only their own small group remained on the map now. It was hard to look at and keep hope.

          And the creatures were massing outside.

          Mark wasn’t a soldier – he had never even held a gun until the past year, and he suspected he missed more often than not. They didn’t really have the ammunition or resources to practice regularly. The one thing he could do convincingly was talk – he could stand, and give a speech about persevering, fighting, facing the enemy. He could give hope one last time. He could see the spark of it lighting in the eyes of the people around him – his small found family, his friends. But as he finished his speech before their final battle, he caught Janet’s eye. Janet’s worried frown.

          As always, she had seen right through him.

          He maintained his smile for the others as he stepped down from the boulder he had been speaking from. Janet wrapped her arms around his waist, staring deeply into his eyes. She said nothing. She didn’t want anyone to overhear. But she knew. And he knew.

          They were likely the last humans, and they weren’t surviving the night.

          He leaned in and kissed her, deeply, losing himself in the moment, and she lost herself in him as well – this last, best kiss.

The Notebook

On By MaryIn Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

Okay! I have finished Baldur’s Gate 3 and can maybe manage to keep my next playthroughs from taking over all my time. Also, I have created a page that lists all the chapters thus far for the 2023 writing challenge, so that they can be easier to access in order. The link is above next to the About link.

The cards for this one are: stranger’s diary, and a person who knows something other people don’t. I had the basic idea from the beginning and pretty much stuck with it. It’s been hard to keep these short because I feel like they need more details, but I also didn’t intend to create anything long with the prompt challenges (the goal being to write something very short in one sitting). Not sure if that makes this story more abrupt in some ways?

Anyhow: le bullshit.

          It was a plain composition book left in a common area of Richard’s dorm. He had picked it up and flipped through the first few pages thinking it might have a name and he could return it to its owner. Instead of the class notes that he expected, he found a diary. He had glanced around, asked a few nearby people if they’d seen who had left it, but no one claimed it. For a moment he was wracked with indecision. If he left it, whoever it belonged to might come back for it. But it would also be out for anyone to read, and he knew how embarrassing that could be for some.

          Richard considered himself respectful of other people’s privacy, so with the best of intentions he took the diary to his room. He’d flip through just enough entries to identify the person and then return the diary to them. And he’d never tell anyone what was in it. There was nothing that immediately identified the writer unfortunately. The first several entries were mundane – daily activities, to do lists that were crossed out. The person used initials instead of full names for the most part.

          Richard was about to give up and possibly take the book back to where he found it when something caught his eye. An actual name, fully spelled out. A girl’s name – Felicia.

          Richard found himself reading the entry carefully, drawn to the name by one fact – Felicia was also the name of a girl that had recently disappeared on campus. No one knew what had happened to her. The diary detailed her appearance, which matched the pictures Richard had remembered seeing of the missing girl. It listed other basic facts about her – the schedules she kept, the routes she took to her job or to her classes, the places she liked to hang out, the people she routinely interacted with.

          It was creepy, and Richard found that he suspected where it was going even before it got there. But reading the entry from the date she disappeared confirmed it.

          How she was kidnapped. Where she was taken. What was done with her.

          A strand of long dark hair was taped to the page in a squiggly spiral.

          Richard continued reading the next several pages. It looked like the diarist had continued as normal for several entries before detailing information about another young woman named Emily. From the description, Richard recognized her as a girl that lived in the same dorm as him. He guessed that the stalker had likely left the book behind after observing her downstairs.

          All of the information in the book suggested that the person that wrote it already knew enough about Emily to pull off a successful abduction, to repeat what he had done to Felicia, to possibly add her hair to the notebook.

          After reading the final entry, Richard closed the composition book and tapped the cover thoughtfully, considering his options.

*********

          Emily was abducted that night, before Richard had even brought the book to the police. He had handed it to the officers, explaining that he had found it in the dorms and wasn’t sure who it belonged to or if any of it was even real or some sick prank. Pointing out the more recent entries about Emily, Richard saw the officers exchange worried looks. “She was reported missing just hours ago,” one of them told him. “Would you mind staying and answering some questions?”

          “Not at all,” Richard said. Richard provided everything he knew would help, and wished them luck on the case.

          His fingerprints were all over the diary, so he knew it was a risk. But he felt almost certain that he handled what he left behind so much better. Certainly, he never left behind a full diary detailing his deeds. He drove a meandering route, making sure that no one was tailing him, returning to where he had been that evening. If he was lucky, the diarist would be pinned for the little spree he had started at the beginning of the semester. It had spiraled a bit out of control, admittedly – he should have started his hunts farther from where he lived. But if the idiot was caught for what he had done to Felicia – certainly he would seem a likely culprit for Richard’s victims. After all, how many college campuses had two active serial killers?

          All Richard had to do was cool his urges, keep them in check, be smarter about it in the future.

          But he could still enjoy the night with Emily.

Plastic

On By MaryIn Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

The cards were “obvious plastic surgery” and “person with a very limited vocabulary”

This was hastily done in 30 minutes and not expounded upon because Baldur’s Gate 3 released a month earlier than I was expecting and that is just my life now. (Or that’s the excuse, anyway)

          At first, it had seemed like something out of Dracula. Philip had been hired to help notarize a whole slew of legal documents for a wealthy individual, and because he was a traveling notary and the process would take several days, he was offered a place to stay within the man’s mansion. Dr. Grady had insisted – the house was remote and far from the nearest town, which was so small it didn’t even have a proper hotel. Considering the prospect of making a daily two hour drive along the twisting mountain roads he had come in on, Philip had been grateful for the offer.

          He had somewhat reconsidered when he had met the woman that was assisting them. Celeste didn’t speak at all – only gestured with her hands. And she was wearing what looked to be a porcelain mask – smooth and pale and inexpressive. It was strange and slightly off putting, but he made no comments. Because she said nothing to him, he avoided making eye contact and didn’t speak much to her. She made him nervous.

          By the second day, Philip realized that the mansion seemed mysteriously absent of people besides Celeste and Dr. Grady. He didn’t think Celeste was the one cooking the meals that she brought to him, but when he had wandered into the kitchen the previous evening, there had been no one present. His room had been tidied while he had been working, and the towels had been refreshed. But he saw no staff. The grounds were meticulously cared for outside, but he saw no gardeners. The place was expansive enough that he knew for a fact that there had to be people that took care of these things, but they seemed to stay out of sight.

          The house was large and beautiful, and everything was bright – the exact opposite of a gothic nightmare. The documentation he was working on was very normal, except for the volume of work – which made sense, as Dr. Grady owned and managed quite a number of assets, all inherited from a family whose wealth stretched back generations. Philip did his best to put it from his mind, and very quickly the work came to an end.

          It was his last day. Celeste was showing him out to his car – which had already been pulled around to the front entrance and parked to wait for him. He could see that there was someone sitting in the front seat of the car. After tossing his overnight bag into the backseat, he turned around and looked up at Celeste. “It has been a pleasure,” he mumbled politely, finally looking her in the face.

          He froze in horror as he studied her, really seeing for the first time that it wasn’t a mask at all. Her face was so still and placid, her skin so smooth that it appeared like porcelain – but it was her actual skin, so frozen that it looked like glass. He had expected to see the edge of the mask, detached and floating above her eyes, but there was no space between because it wasn’t a mask – her eyes, the only expressive part of her, shifted swiftly, studying his face. He heard his car door slam, and turned to see another woman, walking around to bring him his keys. He stared in horror as he realized her face was also similarly frozen, her eyes staring at him warily as he swiveled his head back and forth, his mouth agape.

          He snatched his keys from the lifted hand, perhaps a little harder than was necessary, and snapped his mouth shut. Forcing a strained smile, he thanked them again, several times, perhaps a touch too profusely. Before he knew it, he was in his car, driving away.

          He glanced into his rearview mirror, watching the two women stare silently at his departing vehicle. He could see others appearing – stepping out of hedges, standing at windows. And though he couldn’t make out their details, he felt certain that they all stared from underneath similarly plasticized faces, all silently watching him drive away.

The Wrong Time

On By MaryIn Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

The cards for this one: wig, and a person born in the wrong time period.

It’s choppy and could probably be reworked/lengthened to make more sense and flow better. But childhood cancer is not really a fun subject so I’m kinda glad to be done with it.

Hannah could still remember her older sister Judith vividly. Judith had chestnut colored hair that fell in luxurious curls midway down her back and bright green eyes and freckles. Hannah remembered the games of tag, the shouting matches over pink Starbursts, and cuddling together under the blankets with a flashlight when Judith would read to her before she could read for herself. When she had been small, Judith had been the center of her whole world.

Judith used to say she was born at the wrong time. She loved the Little House on the Prairie books and Anne of Green Gables. She was obsessed with the Oregon Trail game. Hannah could remember the first time Judith had finished Anne of Green Gables, she had walked around the house fussing over wanting a dress with puffed sleeves. When their mother had pushed back, trying to convince Judith she’d be happier with more modern styles of dress, there had been a full on meltdown, with Judith flinging herself dramatically to the floor and crying. It had been both incomprehensible and fascinating to Hannah at the time, but despite her lack of understanding, she had also cried full blast with Judith. She could remember the flabbergasted look on their mother’s face, staring down at them on the floor.

She could remember when Judith got sick. The times spent at the hospital, ignored by their parents, who were devoting all their time and energy to Judith. She knew it was wrong to feel resentful of all the attention Judith was getting, and she felt sad that Judith felt so awful. She was often shunted into the care of aunts or her grandfather, or the neighbors in an emergency. There were a lot of emergencies. Still, a part of her was convinced that things were going to be fine.

Hannah had watched as Judith’s hair had fallen out from the treatment. She could remember Judith being fitted with a wig, her face quite grey and drawn at the time as she glared at her reflection in the mirror. And Hannah had sympathized – the wig, while good, was nowhere near as beautiful as Judith’s long chestnut curls had been. “It’ll be okay, Judy,” their mother had said, adjusting the wig. “You’ll get better and your hair will grow back.” And Hannah had been completely reassured of that truth, and chimed in that their mother was right.

It had been devastating to Hannah to lose her sister, because she had been so sure that Judith would get better one day. Hannah grew up, getting older than Judith had been when she died. All too fast, she was older than her sister would ever be. She spoke very rarely of Judith, and some of her closest friends didn’t even know she had ever had a sister. But there were times when she missed Judith quite a lot. She missed her the year that Judith would have graduated high school, and she missed her presence at her own graduation.

She learned at some point that Judith’s particular cancer was difficult to treat and few recovered or survived. She resented her mother’s false optimism, and stopped talking to her so much once she moved out. There was one day, partway through her first semester of college, that Hannah had read an article that brought Judith to mind immediately. It declared that they had made breakthroughs in treating Judith’s particular cancer – that the prognosis was now very positive for patients. She ran her fingertips across the screen of the phone, and thought of Judith’s childhood declarations of being born in the wrong time. And suddenly, she found she agreed.

Judith had been born too soon.