#prompt prophet

[drawing-prompt-s]

Taking a little break for the rest of the week! Gonna go get my gallbladder removed!

Don't forget to send in prompts during the break!

-- Prompt Prophet

[drawing-prompt-s]

Swinging this out here one more time! Just wanted to share it again to make sure it reaches people - I did make another post as well, and there is the insta too. I'll be sharing more information on the story as it gets closer. But it's still projected for early 2026 so far.

-- Prompt Prophet

Instagram post linked here

Upcoming book, “Lykos”, by new independent author J. N. Ledford, is a supernatural contemporary romance novel with a twist.

Estimated publication in late 2025 or early 2026!

More content to be posted as the date arrives.

--- ☆ ---

“Khalid Hawkins expects a few things when he moves to Haywood County, NC, to take over the cabin he inherited from his late grandfather – old pipes, cleaning up a yard, and maybe some renovations if he can figure them out himself. What comes as a surprise however is when the first storm hits and he hears a crash in the shed outside, only to find a werewolf slumped over in a heap with an arrow gouged into its body.

Fae Holloway expects a few things when she opens her eyes, like a white light to walk into since she just got shot with a silver tipped arrow. Instead, she gets to wake up to a burning pain in her chest, more wolfsbane than she’s ever seen, and bones that feel like they’re ready to dissolve. At least she is still alive, and still in her wolf form, which is likely the only reason she survived to begin with. All her realizations topped off by the wide-eyed stare of the young man poking his head around the corner of the splintered shed door.

The pair are in for more than they realize as they begin to grow closer, unaware that the very people who had driven the werewolf into Khalid’s life weren’t ready to give up on the hunt just yet.”

---------------------------

[Background image of Devil’s Courthouse in the Blue Ridge Parkway by @ajledford_com (instagram) used with permission]

[ailithnight]

DPxDC Prompt #10

Danny; baby Ancient of Space, Ward of Time, Infinite Prince, Dream Coda; as if he wasn't OP enough, has begun having prophetic dreams.

Sometimes they're about imminent deaths, sometimes it's deep secrets never intended to see the light of day, sometimes it's spoilers to various popular media, and a lot of times just random crap like 'it's gonna start raining at 2:23pm' or 'there will be a friendly cat on the way to school.'

Fortunately for Danny, he doesn't really remember most of his dreams. He just carries on with his life as usual and possibly doesn't even know these dreams are happening. He doesn't have to deal with the normal trauma or anxiety most prophets live with.

Unfortunately for the people around him, he's prone to sleep walking and sleep talking.

It's more than a little unnerving when you wake up in the middle of the night and your newest brother is just there. You didn't hear him come in. Which should be impossible, and yet he did it literally in his sleep. He says "He doesn't have enough eggs for pancakes." Then faceplants into your bed to return to deep slumber.

[touchofhemlocktea]

Among the duties of the Infinite King, Ancient of Balance and Space

There was one duty that must be held with the utmost solemnity.

The DAY OF BALANCE had come to the realms once more.

Once every Eon...

The realms of nightmares and punishments are swept clean. Souls sent into the eternal cycle to be reborn or burn as fuel for all of existence.

Those that have waited for this day are drawn to the king's grasp, escorted into deaths waiting arms.

In the living realms, a wave of power bursts forth. Every portal opens as the Ectoplasm that makes up the realms themselves is cycled.

In this wave, the final act is carried. A call for all who fall under the realms rule. Undead fall into dust as their souls are torn away. Shades are put to rest. Artifacts are stripped of their stolen powers.

Those who carry the power of prophesy speak in unison.

THE DAY OF BALANCE IS COMPLETED

LONG LIVE THE INFINITE KING

[whumppromptoftheday]

prophet whumpee, untimely chosen for the salvation of the world.

Exiled from their village—-either from a crime they didn’t commit or a another reason—they unexpectedly fall into the hands of whumper.

Whumper convinces them that their suffering is needed to being salvation to world. Manipulating their faith and hope, while subjecting them to torture.

[freefallen-snx]

something i currently CANNOT get out of my head is a mysterious character who develops prophetic visions but only when sick and with a fever - they think they're just fever-dreams at first but realise what they are when too many of them come true for it to be a coincidence. these visions prove useful for a certain group of people, who begin to develop various strains of different cold viruses in order to infect the mysterious character to use (and maybe exploit..?) these visions to their own advantage and maybe even manipulate fate...

[heyitsrink]

The Mirror Scene™ . . .

"But this, Fitz, this is how I have always seen you. And how you have never have seen yourself"

[tedbird]

do you think horace would be scared of final destination or not? because on one hand, he’s already had roughly 80-odd years of visions and death hasn’t come for him once yet (in a final destination sense we’re excluding the horrors of canon here), but on the other hand the premise is a very real possibility. like him having a mass-casualty vision and changing course is both possible and likely, this isn’t a hypothetical to him.

[mcuthoraction]

Summary:

Weapon after weapon. Thor outgrew them all. The power of these visions that Thor was having… they could not possibly be excused as the bad dreams of a small child. Odin did not wish for this burden to be upon his son. Not at all. So, he gathered the strongest weapons he could, giving them as Thor could handle them. OR: Thor's prophetic abilities reveal themselves once Mjolnir is burst by Hela. This may affect a few things...

Fic written by @mayonaisie for the Thor Gotcha for Gaza for the prompt: Post ragnarok Seer!thor au where baby thor is haunted by visions until Odin binds his powers/stops them from happening with mjolnir, but they come back when mjolnir is destroyed.

[deceit-and-knowledge]

ooc: okie I need someone anyone to be a voice in sages head that convinces him to stop researching for his condition and check on dreamweaver (mean or nice)

(if nice: tell him to come back later as dw is more important)

(if mean: idk bully him for his condition or mock him for abandoning dw)

[drawing-prompt-s]

Notice:

Hello, as some of you may be coming here with the belief that I am the same admin that runs @/Writing-Prompt-s please know that is incorrect! I am NOT! We share a similar name because he started it years ago, but I have been running it solo for almost 8 years now and have nothing to do with his other blog(s) or whatever it going down. Thank you!

Also I don't scrape(?) my prompts from Reddit or any other site - they're all submitted by other users who follow this blog and I just pick some to post (that's why you can find posts on here where I remind others to send them in). Occasionally I may make my own if I have an idea! But that's a misconception I keep seeing that I wanted to add this about.

Further explanation/information under the cut about who runs this blog:

While the/an admin of Writing-prompt-s did start this blog years ago, he then left it to idle and focused on his original blog. I saw this and reached out, again years ago, asking to run it - to which I was promoted to admin. I have been running Drawing-prompt-s solo for about 7 or 8 years now.

Until yesterday (08.06.24) I had no idea anything was even going on with his blog. I have nothing to do with it, I barely even see anything from it aside from the rare prompt come up on my dash nowadays. I only found out when I went to Q a bunch of posts up and found a slew of hate mail ranging from calling me a zionist, threatening violence, and telling me to kill myself. And one of my followers having sent an anon informing me that one of those posts had incorrectly stated he ran this blog as well - that user has since recognized that this is not the case, and various others have pointed it out.

I had a pinned post about this before and when I left for a few hours and came back it was gone. I am working under the assumption right now this is just the fault of Tumblr, though I am tentative about that. So if you see this posted again that is why, and if you see this exact post made again then just be aware it is becuase I am saving a copy of this message and each time the post is removed I will be reposting it, as i am saving this elsewhere so I do not have to rewrite it each time.

I do not want argument under this - I have caught up on everything going on, I have seen the post saying he runs this one, etc. All I wanted for this blog is to post prompts, share art, and encourage others to follow their passion for creation. And occasionally to drop cute cat pictures of my little gremlins.

To those who have been here for years and know who I am, know I am not that same person, I say thank you for sticking around - and to those correcting the misinformation, thank you again. I appriciate it <3

Yours sincerely,

a very confused chick in her early 20s who had no idea anything was even going down.

-- Prompt Prophet

[thedeafprophet]

playing an intense parkour (aknowledging the golem myth with my jewish ocs while the clay men existing:tm: makes that quite awkard)

[ominous-faechild]

Now I'm curious (because I see this 100% happening at least ONCE within the world I'm writing and I think it's hilarious)--

Imagine you're a worshipper of this one amazing goddess who can do no wrong, helps and has helped a lot of people. Then, one day, you're living your life and you meet this one guy. He's absolutely covered in scars, looks like he grew up in some kind of penitentiary. And he's buff. Like, seriously buff. Built like a horse.

He introduces himself.

He shares his name with one of your goddess's old angels. This one guy used to be one of her top guys, one of her most powerful attendants... up until the day he attacked her.

Then he was cursed and cast down for his crimes.

"Ha," you say, half out of awkwardness and half to fill the air while you figure out what to say. "That was real cruel of your parents, huh? Naming you after that guy."

The man sighs heavily, face twitching.

"No," he says, barely restraining his rage, "that's me."

What do you do?

@honeybewrites (also would love to know this answer from anyone else, haha)

[cc-writes-stuff]

for the 'what will ur character do' ask for silas & theo: #9 & #17 ✨

Sorry this is only 17 but i don’t really have any ideas off the top of my head for how they would betray each other 😅 hope you enjoy this nonetheless!

17: if their partner-to-be? enemy? pulls them into a secluded and shushes them? (their bodies pressing and all that!!)

Silas didn’t know if Theodore was even daring to breathe.

He was, if only because Silas could feel the movement of his chest under his hand, the small, but it sure didn’t seem like it.

The Paladins were still shouting at each other to find them, voices carrying over the empty, ruined town. Could see the shadows moving from the gaps in the wood flooring. Silas still had his knife in a vice grip, ready to be thrust towards the first plated chest he saw.

If anyone stepped on their hiding place, they’d be doomed.

Idly, he wondered if the Paladins took his spear. They probably did. It’d be a bitch to get back, but most convenient hiding places don’t support a five-foot tall weapon made of metal and wood. He had to ditch it to ensure their safety.

More voices. Theodore, somehow, gets even more tense under his hands.

“Relax,” Silas dares to whisper, eyes glancing towards the floorboards above them. “They won’t find us.”

Theodore’s heart was hammering in their chest, under his palm. It was a sensation Silas was used to, the feeling of the beating organ before it slowly came to a stop, and it was almost comforting in the familiarity thereof.

The other man doesn’t say anything, but he shifts, just barely, scooting back a little. Through the gaps of light coming in from the floorboard, he can see Theodore’s lips turning into a scowl. A muscle cramps in Silas right hand, the one taking his upper body weight and keeping him from collapsing entirely onto Theodore.

Silence, still. Theodore seems uninclined to talk and given the situation, Silas refrains as well. Only their—well, mostly Silas���—breaths can be heard in the tiny little cubbyhole probably designed as some sort of drug stash centuries ago. If there was anything in there, it was looted a while back.

Shadows pass over the light. Theodore, who had started to relax as the minutes ticked on, goes rigid again. Silas is close enough to feel the tension in his legs, the halting of his breathing, the way Theodore seems to coil into themselves.

Silas can hear his own heart, pounding in his ears. He’s been in situations similar to this before—hiding from mobs of people who knew of his faith, hiding from the lawlayers and militias after another sacrifice or several, hiding from the Paladins that cut his time short in any place he stayed in—but this was different. He had never done this with someone else before and Theodore’s naiveté regarding what to do when pinned made it dangerous.

Once again, Silas finds himself wondering what it was like for Theodore, growing up the way the did. In a community where he was accepted, even revered, instead of shunned, for his faith. Where the community would protect him, where he didn’t have to worry about meeting his end at the business end of a blade.

The shadows pass, and the light filters through the crack’s again. Theodore is biting his lip, lower one wedged under his upper teeth, chewing nervously. His chest still barely moves. Silas’ neck cramps.

Slowly, the voices fade. Theodore relaxes more and more and sinks further down between Silas’ legs.

Finally, after what must be an hour, Theodore asks, “Is it safe to go?”

Truthfully, Silas thinks, it was safe a good bit ago, once the voices cleared. He tells himself he waited longer, just in case there were any lingerers waiting to see if they got tired and exposed themselves.

“I think so,” he says instead. Letting go of the knife, Silas reaches up as far back as he can go, fingers pressed against the fake floor panel. With a grunt, he heaves upwards, using the extra height Theodore’s chest offers to push it open.

Beneath him, Theodore wheezes.

The false floor clatters away, and Silas stands up, back popping. He gives a quick glance around the room, and when he deems it safe, he steps out.

“Come on, let’s get going,” he sayd, turning around to offer a hand to Theodore.

Cold, thin fingers wrap around his own, and for a moment, Silas allows himself to revel in this simple fact of life. Then he tightens his grip and steps back, helping pull Theodore out of the floorboards.

“Thanks,” the prophet says, once they steady themself on the floor. His face is bright red, and he starts rubbing his arm. “For the save, I mean. I— do not think I would have fared well in that situation.”

“Hey, it’s no problem,” Silas says, shooting a smile at Theodore, before he steps back down into the cubbyhole to grab his knife. “Us Zakelians have to stick together.”

Sunlight streaming through the fire-burnt buildings lights Theodore’s face up in a golden glow. For a moment, he wonders how their people could ever doubt that Theodore was a chosen one.

“Right.”

[probably-impossible]

Crush

A story about the End of the Wild West; or, the Prophet sees two trains explode on his one-hundred-and-fourth birthday.

(Aka my Activity 1 for the @dollarstrilogyevent that I got way too into hahahaha)

By his own reckoning, Prophet was one-hundred and four years old as of that September in 1896. Perhaps unsurprisingly he had lost most of his hearing, but his vision was still good. He saw the door of his shack swing open, and he struggled to sit up in bed. “I've already found Jesus and I'm not buying anything!”

The face that poked around the door belonged to Fluke Dudley, a young man who worked on the ranch that had sprung up next door. He was just about the only one who visited him anymore. “It's me, Prophet,” he said. “I w- - - - - to - - - - you- -”

“Speak up, boy!”

“I SAID THERE'S SOMEWHERE I'D LIKE TO TAKE YOU TODAY!”

“What? Where's that, then?”

“IT'S A SURPRISE!” Fluke scratched his nose and grinned. “For your birthday. You'll like it, sir, I promise.”

Prophet grumbled but allowed Fluke to lift him into the rickety wheelchair that sat beside his bed. “Don't need remindin’ about no birthday,” he said. “I've had about ten too many of ‘em, I reckon. Wish someone had put me out of my misery back when the goddamn good-for-nothing trains took my hearing!”

“Oh, don't talk like that.” 

“I'm a hundred and four years old, I'll talk however I damn well please!” 

Fluke rolled him out of the shack, towards one of the ranch's small one-horse wagons. He lifted the old man up onto the seat and stowed the chair in the bed, then jumped up and flicked the reins.

Prophet squinted at the scenery as they rolled slowly alongside the train tracks. “I used to get visits from all sorts of people, you know,” he said. “I used to know everything about everybody in these parts. They'd come from miles around to see me. To get their information.”

Fluke nodded. He'd heard this story before. 

“Lawmen, outlaws, drifters,” Prophet continued. “Bounty killers. I've seen them all. But they just don't make men like that anymore. I tell you, boy, things have got too civilized around here.”

“ - - - - ”

“What?”

“I SAID YOU'RE RIGHT!”

“Damn sure I'm right.” Prophet leaned over the side of the wagon to glare down at the tracks. “It's all the fault of those trains! They take all the civilized folk from out east, load ‘em up into their carriage cars with the lacy curtains and little fruity drink trolleys, and send ‘em out here. And soon enough there's so much civilization around a man can't hardly be himself anymore.”

Prophet leaned back and went silent for a while. “I wonder how many of those young men who used to come and see me are still alive,” he said. “They strung up Willie Foster last year, I know that. And Kid Frasier fell off his hoss. That old marshal Colby… whatever happened to him?”

“He got killed in a shootout, you said.”

“Right, right. Davey and Red Kelly done it, and then they run off to Mexico.” He blinked as another wagon passed by them. It was loaded up with people, chatting and laughing. He lost his thought for a moment, then picked it back up again. “Angel Eyes… he's long gone. That retired colonel went back to North Carolina. Now what was that young buck's name… Manco. Fell off the face of the earth, far as I can remember. And worst of all, poor old Cheyenne…”

“Shot in the gut by the president of the railroad company,” Fluke muttered.

“...shot in the gut by the president of the railroad company! Did you ever hear of a worse way to go?!” Prophet sighed. “Somehow I outlived them all. Now I'm the last of a dyin’ breed. They just don't make men like us anymore.”

“No sir,” Fluke said. There were more wagons around now, and people walking along the tracks, too. They all seemed to be going in the same direction. Fluke tipped his hat as they passed by a group of ladies holding parasols.

Prophet looked at him skeptically. “Where exactly are you taking me? There sure are a lot of other people headed this way.”

“You'll find out soon,” Fluke said. “We're almost there.” 

“There’s nothin’ wrong with my hair!”

“I SAID WE'RE ALMOST THERE!”

As they kept riding the crowd really started to thicken. They passed by lemonade stands and carnival games, a grandstand with a band, even a circus tent. “Just this once I'm glad I'm deaf,” Prophet muttered. “Who's runnin’ a goddamn county fair along the train tracks?”

Fluke slowly drew the wagon to a stop and pointed up at a large banner that had been hoisted next to a section of the track. It read ‘Crush, Texas. Est. September 15, 1896.’

“The railroad company's putting on a demonstration,” Fluke said, raising his voice even more than usual over the sound of the crowd. “They're gonna take two old steam engines, run ‘em as fast as they can, and crash ‘em right into each other!” He beamed with pride. “How do you like that for a birthday present, sir? You and me are gonna watch two trains smash each other to smithereens!”

Prophet blinked. “...What? The railroad company’s gonna smash their own trains?” he said, puzzled. “What for?”

“They're old engines, I guess,” Fluke said. “No use for ‘em anymore.”

“So they're crashing them? What, with all these people around?” 

“It's supposed to be very safe. No chance of the boilers exploding or anything, that's what the man from the railroad said.”

Prophet went quiet for a while. Fluke felt his own excitement start to deflate. He'd been so sure the old man would love to see this. All he ever talked about was how much he hated trains! The whole affair seemed perfectly designed with him in mind. But he didn't look excited. In fact, he seemed a little… sad.

“The railroad company…” he muttered. “Making a whole damn spectacle out of busting up some old trains that aren't good for nothing anymore. And it's perfectly safe. ‘Course it is.”

A ripple of excitement went through the crowd; rumbling could be heard in the distance. Fluke slouched on the bench of the wagon. “...I'm sorry, Prophet. I thought for sure you'd like to see it.”

“Oh, don't look so damn mopey, boy,” Prophet said, gently. “Old bastards like me can't ever be satisfied with nothin’, that's all.”

They sat there in silence for a while. Fluke listened to the rumbling while Prophet watched two black dots appear on either end of the horizon and grow steadily closer. 

Eventually the rumbling grew to a roar, and an anticipatory hush fell over the crowd. The ground began to shake. The trains were close enough to their destined meeting place now that Prophet could make out the shape of the engine cars, could see the smoke billowing from their antiquated stacks. For the first time in his life, the sight of the damn things didn't fill him entirely with hatred. They were being put out to pasture, just like him. To make way for newer, better trains. And when it happened it would be a perfectly-designed show, perfectly safe. Perfectly civilized. 

The two trains met right beneath the banner. There was a mighty crash, so loud that even Prophet could hear it, and the sound of splintering wood. Then, a moment of total silence. 

When the explosion began, time seemed to slow for Prophet. He could see a bright orange light well up within each of the smashed engines, then blossom into two beautiful balls of flame. The light danced in his eyes, and he smiled with glee. The boilers of the old engines had blown up after all. The sight of it was breathtaking. 

All this took place within less than a second. As the fire billowed outwards, the force of the explosion sent millions of pieces of metallic debris straight into the gathered crowd. Prophet grinned with ecstasy and thought about how awful this was going to be for the railroad company. Oh, they were going to have hell to pay for this. It was a fiasco. Maybe it would even drive them out of business...! Of all the ways for a man like him to go, this was a fine one. He was grateful the boy had brought him out here, after all.

The explosion nearly knocked Fluke from the wagon, and he felt a stinging pain in his forearms as he shielded his face. It was all over in only a moment. He could hear groans and shouts from the crowd as he slowly regained his senses. He looked down at his arms; he'd been hit by some shrapnel, but not badly. 

He turned quickly towards Prophet, then froze. The old man lay flopped backwards over the wagon bench, unmoving. 

A metal bolt had gone straight into his forehead. Even so, there was a satisfied smile on his face.

[e-pistulae]

in today's letter: cicero gets pissed off that furnius wants to be praetor instead of seeking eternal glory (by killing antony can someone please kill antony for our dear friend marcus tullius)! but it doesn't matter because clearly this means furnius was never really as good as cicero thought he was! and btw there are only three letter left after this one :-)

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