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[bens-daily-writing]

Week Three Day Five: Style Practice

Every now and again, something from Kravitz’s life resurfaces.

Or rather, something from the span of time where he still lived and breathed resurfaces.

A grandchild of someone he’d known, a memory of a river or a hill, maybe a handful images of faces half familiar.

And at the heart of most of these resurfacings is the Raven Queen.

Yes; The Goddess of Death, Queen of Quiet Blackness, Patron of Winter and Fate, She Who Escorts the Dead, bothers Kravitz at every opportunity

It’s like a mother teasing her grown son.

“Quiet a rogue weren’t you?” the vague mass of black feathers might mutter after a largely burned picture of someone who looks hauntingly like Kravitz turns up on his desk.

“A sweetheart,” the wind could whisper after Kravitz uncovers a box of barely legible yellowed love letters.

It makes Kravitz’s cheeks burn with ruffled embarrassment.

Things only get worse with Barold and Lup.

The aforementioned container of lover letters was the subject of a long and tense arms race, blackmail material was gathered and ignored by both sides until the event known between the three of them as The Burning.

They were each sworn to secrecy by The Raven Queen after that.

Even so, these tiny reminders that he was alive bubble up.

A distant descendant met by “pure chance” on one task or another.

A scrap of paper or rotted painting turning up at Kravtiz’s desk.

Once, Kravitz asked her about it.

“Empathy,” she said, today in the shape of a massive carrion’s skeleton.

Kravitz waited for any explanation beyond that and was deeply disappointed.

That brings us to today.

Kravitz sits idly in the land of the dead, waiting for someone, somewhere, to commit a crime against nature.

KRAVITZ he feels in his mind.

“Yes my lady?” he says, trained by years not to feel like an idiot as his voice echoes out over empty halls.

COME TO MY CHAMBERS. I HAVE SOMETHING I WISH TO SHARE WITH YOU.

Kravitz frowns.

He probably should have expected this, but the things people should expect are most often the things that sneak up on them.

His guts fill with unpleasant butterflies he gnaws slightly nervous on his lip.

Why should he be nervous?

Sure, he was getting married without asking her, but he is his own man!

Demi-living creature.

Something.

Whatever the case, Kravitz assures himself he is a man capable marriage without management.

“Of course I am” he says, almost outloud before he pushes the impossibly large doors of the Raven Queen’s chamber open.

She sits on her throne, wearing the look of a human today.

She’s beautiful, of course, in that sort of unsettling way that all gods, who want to beautiful, are.

Her skin is dark brown, matching Kravitz’s skin when wears it.

Her eyes are pure blue, but she seldom remembers to blink.

And her dress, flowing impossibly long and looking to be made of stars, is rather fetching as well.

She beckons him closer to her throne with one set of her long fingers.

Kravitz climbs the long set of stairs leading to her throne.

“Yes my Lady?” he says, like he imagines a loyal servant sounds.

“No accent today my servant?” she says, gently coy.

Kravitz coughs awkwardly before muttering a “No my Lady.”

The Raven Queen straightens, and the teasing older woman becomes a God again.

“You are being wed,” she says, no question in her tone.

Kravitz nods, trying to match her stoic air.

The Raven queen presents an envelop she was not holding before.

Without a thought or a movement or a puff of smoke she had summoned a letter.

She holds it aloft for Kravitz.

He takes it with little hesitation.

The Raven Queen is not one for trick questions.

“Be merry.” she says, like it’s an order.

“Yes my Lady.”

At home, or more accurately, at Taako’s home, Kravitz breaks the wax seal.

He nearly cringes at the lettering once he sees it; the single digit age of who ever penned this note is apperent in every crooked L and every lopsided O.

but Kravitz can identify his own handwriting, one year or a thousand away.

Kravitz Orchushudf

What I want my wife to be.

1. Smart.

They have got to be smater than me.

Even with Kravitz’s deeply mispelled family name set aside, he can feel a goofy grin start to bloom on his face.

Wife

From down the hall, Taako shrieks.

“My fucking lamb chop!”

Kravitz lets out quiet snicker.

“Babe, get the fantasy fire extinguisher, this is gonna be a fucking thing!”

Kravitz tries, and fails, to swallow his grin before presenting the fantasy fire extinguisher to Taako.

For his shit eating grin he is banished from the kitchen, sent to “go be a smiley boner anywhere else.”

He returns to their bedroom, and digs back into his bridal wishlist.

2. Pretty.

They ave to be very pretty!

Kravitz’s smile turns from the smile you make at a joke to the smile you make at a lover.

It softens at the edges, and deepens around the eyes.

He imagines Taako as he’d just seen him; barely dressed and with a length of his hair on fire.

He nods slowly and almost chuckles.

Taako groans and stomps quickly across the house to the room Kravitz is currently laying in.

The man folds out onto the bed, slapping his face into Kravitz’s belly.

All this earns him is a bemused chuckle.

“Hows the wedding practice run going?” Kravitz asks.

Taako groans hard into his belly.

Kravitz tries to stymie his laugh.

“People have offered to help. Lup is happy to be sous chief, Magnus is on board to grill Merle said he’d handle booze.”

Taako groans into his guts.

Then he says something that feels like “has to be perfect”

Kravitz smile falls away.

That’s not true he thinks, and he strokes Taako’s hair once.

It has to be you.

Taako pops up again, suddenly standing next to the bed, arms swinging back and forth.

“Alright!” he says, psyching himself up, “take 4, lets go!”

With that, Taako marches back into the kitchen and begins again.

Kravitz chuckles, half worried.

He digs back into his letter again.

4. (Three being apparently being too unimportant a number for child Kravitz) Nice

They have to be super kind.

Kravitz snorts.

“Also!” Taako screams from the kitchen with something apparently in his mouth, “Kathleen can eat a dick!

“Why?” Kravitz asks, vexed at the change of heart.

“Called my bon-bons too pink. I escalated!” Taako took whatever it was out of his mouth to punctuate the last statement.

Kravitz sighs.

The list of his demands winds on, from eloquence to skill at sports to height.

Each gets some sort of a manner of laugh from Kravitz.

How a lifetime followed by years of busy death can change a man.

Taako enters the room, even more scorched than last time.

He sighs and then collapses onto the bed to Kravitz.

“Success,” he says, apparently exhausted.

Kravitz snorts again.

“Honey, your shoulder is on fire,”

Taako sighs, as if Kravitz has just said something stupid and exhausting, before he pats out the fire.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing at Kravitz’s letter.

What should he say?

A wish list for a wife I wrote two lifetimes ago?

A present from the god of death who might also be the closest I have to a mother?

“Well wishers,”

Taako groans.

“No the fuck thanks my dude.”

In tone?

I think so

it’s mega long and fan fic those are points against it suppose

Words: 1257

Time: approx 2.5 hours

Kravitz: My romantic partner must be graceful, intelligent, eloquent, top of line-

Taako: *trips over air*

Taako: I am but a simple idiot wizard.

Taako: *constantly jokes about his own stupidity*

Taako: Hey thug, I’m about to tentacle your dick!

Kravitz: …

Kravitz: That one. I want that one.

[bens-daily-writing]

Week 3 day 4: Genre practice

Prompt: Murder

Pretty sure I meant this to be a murder mystery esque thing.

I wrote the start of it then went on to out line.

This might be the system for stories that want to be longer.

“A bloody mess of a crime scene,” is what LT. Elkhorn had said, and surveying the scene Barnes was inclined to slap him for his sick pun. The master bedroom of the Purtain estate is covered nearly floor to ceiling in blood. No surface was left untouched by the sick red spray.

The bed runs perpendicular to to the door inside, and the door into the bathroom is on the other side of the bed. The far wall is dominated by a massive window out, through currently very little light streams in from the outside world, between lace curtains and blood. On either end of the room is a fraction of Lord Purtain’s considerable library; these being only the ones he was too attached to allow to leave the room. They too are painted in harsh red.

Barnes begins his inspection, first checking under the bed, finding gore sprayed out even from under the sheets. Barnes harrumphs, one knee currently soaking in the spray of blood, “Hell of case,” He says after a moment. Then he crooks his head to the side. “Lieutenant Elkhorn?” he asks, tone pointedly neutral. “Yes sir?” Lt. Elkhorn answers. “Would you care to tell me why, exactly, the blood currently ruining my good pants is cold?” Elkhorn furrows his brows, before running a careful finger through the blood along the bedside table. “I don’t know sir, “ he says, tone deeply confused as he rubs blood the temperature of ice water between his fingers. Barnes stands up, correct that his pants have been almost permanently stained with his blood and focused on nothing of the sort. He walks forward, pushing Lt. Elkhorn aside, as he stands between the bed and the shelf of books closest to the entryway. “Do you happen to know which book is missing from the shelf here Mr. Elkhorn?” Barnes says, sliding a finger into the only gap of the bookshelf. Lt. Elkhorn clears his throat as Barnes’ accidental insult, before venturing “Perhaps he was reading it another room?” Barnes shook his head. “No, Lord Purtain was a man of considerable order, not to mention his library is on the far end of the building,” Barnes clears his throat before looking one and then other, before saying “You inspected the room  before I arrived Lt. Elkhorn?” he says, turning to his peer. Lt. Elkhorn nods sternly. Barnes nods as well, before turning to face the blood soaked door. “I imagine you did not miss anything vital,” he provides before opening the door and leaving the room. Lt. Elkhorn smiles and looks at his shoes at the praise before trailing after his superior.

Interviews:

Mrs. Purtain: Broken up about it, incoherent

Daughter Purtain: Suspicious of the butler, as her father had been yelling at him the night before about putting his book up

Butler: Served him loyally even if he was a dick, they were arguing about σχεδιάζω, a favorite book of Lord Purtain’s with no monetary but some sentimental value

The only other person on site is the gardener, who is missing when they go to the gardener’s hut along with a pair of shears.

Barnes and Lt. Elkhorn hunt him down to a local bar where he’s having blast.

After they interview him, he claims the money he got to go out drinking was from Lord Purtain as thanks for taking him to the station.

Barnes asks Elkhorn if he missed them, he says no and there is doubt in both of them.

Barnes asks daughter, wife and butler about debt.

Daughter doesn’t know, butler stays silent until wife denies it, then he confesses that he knows.

Parlor scene:

Lord Purtain faked his death, keeping his blood frozen and taking his favorite book with him.

Words: 625

time: this was worked on across two days, but I didn’t have internet for one.

a twist stolen from Wolf amoung us comics.

[bens-daily-writing]

Week 3 day 3: Character

Name: Erica “Mason Jar of Spiders” Sanders

Story:

When Erica was fourteen, she had her first boyfriend.

His name was Dennis Krieger.

He had been playing the trombone since he was in fourth grade, though Erica had not shared his elementary school.

Erica was with her best friend at the time, Diana, on the blacktop.

They were talking about spongebob and wandering.

Dennis began to follow them, breaking off from his mob of friends in ripple of laughter.

Erica and Diana paused their conversation as he got close.

“Erica, can I talk to you?” he said, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his jacket

Erica looked to Diana and smiled, nervously giggling before facing him again and nodding.

The pair of them walked out past the clusters of kids, and then to the grass just outside the school’s property.

“Did you want to, could you hang out this weekend? Like, like a date hang out? Watching a movie?”

Erica paused, mostly shocked.

She should say yes right?

She’d never been on a date before.

When Erica turned fifteen, she broke up with her first boyfriend.

She was laying in bed, on the phone with Dennis Krieger.

They’d gone to third base eight days before.

Dennis had just said something very mean indeed.

“It wasn’t great Er. You’re just too bony, your hips are super thin. I didn’t like it.”

Erica said, without thinking about it, “Fuck you.”

She froze, immediately paralyzed with fear.

And then she hung up.

She started blinking, and she knew she was going to cry.

‘It’s like throwing up’ she thought to herself ‘I’ll feel better when it’s over’

So she cried, heaving out her emotional guts.

She didn’t feel better.

She felt crummy.

She realized she’d felt crummy for forever.

She curled into a ball and groaned.

Then she pulled her phone from her pocket, and called Common Sense.

“Let me tell you a trick I learned when I was in college.” Erica’s mother had told her one day.

Erica had turned in attention at that, her mother gave advice from a fallible college student, it always came from an omnipotent mother.

“When you get a little older, you might start to make stupid choices because of boys. So what I did to stop that from happening, is that I would call Common Sense.”

“Who is Common Sense?” Erica had asked.

Her mother smiled at that, wide and excited.

“Yourself. Call your own number, and leave a message. And then listen to girl who called you.”

Erica had asked “Why? What is it for?”

Her mother just grinned, knowingly.

“You’ll see when you’re older.”

“-and sometimes, he’s just such a fucking dick. Like, I used some black lipstick like, a month a go or something, and he just straight up told me ‘you look like a goth bitch’ like what the fuck? And god, shit like that happens all the time.”

The girl on the phone sighed.

“I don’t know, he’s so sweet, and he calls me sexy and he likes my body sometimes” the girl on the phone’s voice broke, and then she sobbed.

Erica pressed redial.

“Fuck. Him.”

I’m happy with it.

I don’t know who Erica is shaping up to be yet, but I’ll get there.

Word count: 526

Time: 52m 39s

[bens-daily-writing]

Week 3 day 2: Missed it

busy day.

I should’ve made time.

[bens-daily-writing]

Week Three, Day one: Location

Prompt: Decay

The Trellstill Mortuary and Memorial Garden is a fascinating and bleak place during the day, and  a deeply troubling place at night.

When you first arrive, even at night, you’d be greeted by two opened wide iron gates separated by a dirt island set into the asphalt.

Jutting out of the dirt island, half buried, is a stone around the size of the man with an engraving reading “Trellstill Mortuary and Memorial Garden” and “No Outlet”.

The next thing one would come across is the parking lot, only wider than the street before it by the additional parking spots on either side.

The mortuary is a two and half story building of old but well treated wood.

It hangs next to the lot, making the bright cars and black ground seem out of place.

Near to the mortuary, but closest to it’s back wall, is a shack of similar wood.

The shack is tired and quite apparently more worn than the larger mortuary.

It contains, as anyone who has glanced through it’s smashed window or slightly ajar door could tell you, dozens of stone sculptures in various states of creation or repair.

Parallel to the shack, which seems to have it’s door angled randomly away from the mortuary, is a field of memorial stones inset to the ground.

Each stone is palm sized, square and barely an inch taller than the surrounding ground.

There are around a dozen stones arranged into careful rows, each a with a different named carved into them

very slow, not finished as I had more planned out in my head but it’s on prompt and acceptably written.

I’m out of practice.

248 words

55 min 27 sec

[bens-daily-writing]

Back on my bullshit

[bens-daily-writing]

Week two, day seven

I’m very busy.

I’d prefer to write fic on my main.

We’ll see if I have time.

[bens-daily-writing]

Week two, day six

Im too damn busy.

Theres so much to do before I move.

[bens-daily-writing]

Week two, day 5: Style practice

prompt: The Beatles

Fantastic, romantic, idealistic.

“Love is a lie.”

“Aren’t all the best things?

“is gentle rain a lie?”

“are sweet kisses shared, gentle and slow, in the dead of night a lie?”

“Is freedom a lie?”

“No.”

“Think before you speak.”

short, bad, off prompt.

angry.

37 words.

[bens-daily-writing]

Week two, day four: location/action

The bridge creaks as Harold runs across.

The gentle river runs below.

He’s being chased, the kind of life or death chase, through the tranquil gardens of The Duchess.

It’s strange, horrifying even, that the butterflies and the rabbits and the gentle breeze do not care for his sprinting, his panting, or the blood on his breath.

They don’t care either for the men who run with trampling steps, excepting those who live where the men trample.

Harold cannot pause, but he knows the man are not far behind, as they know the garden near as well as he.

The bridge is over something barely called a stream, it runs from the duchess’ private lake.

Harold sprints across the cobblestone paths that run across the garden in a mysterious, maze like path.

His shoes hit the ground with a gentle tok-tok-tok-tok…

Harold knows every path, every every curve every hedge.

He leaps over a short hedge, leaning on a wood pole hidden inside, used to support the flimsy branches.

Some of soldiers try to follow him, most getting caught.

Harold doesn’t grin.

Even if he has experience, they have numbers.

Those who stumbled through the brush are trampled under the boots of their peers.

The boots on the cobbled stone behind him are a jumbled mess of a dozen clanking men.

Harold reaches the heart of the garden.

It’s a square with paths leading in the four cardinal directions, and walls of thick grown hedges in right angles between the paths.

Along the walls are two stone benches each, laid parallel to one side of the walls.

And then there is the well.

It’s tiny.

He most definitely be stuck if he leaps in.

To be in a tight space is better than to be caught he supposes.

His plan, improvised instantly, was to divide the groups attention along the four paths.

He will have turned a corner and vanished.

So when he was yet but a meter away from the well, he jumped.

and he hoped.

[bens-daily-writing]

Week Two, Day three: Complete Story

Prompt: fairytail

Mia, Tea, Leo and Soe lived in the house by the path by the river.

They were the best of friends, and their house was lovely.

Every night the village that Mia, Tea, Leo and Soe lived in would create a great meal.

The four of them would leave their house when the dinner bell rung and they would put on their shoes and climb down the path.

They would give the berries they’d spent the day collecting to the jam makers, and then the group would go to tsubuan makers and help them mash down azuki beans.

Once the group was done helping make tsubuan, the second dinner bell would ring and the plate-servers would serve plates filled high with one serving of everything.

The four of them has always seen that there were four plates left over at the nights end.

The plate-servers would leave four plates in the center four seats of the massive table, even after the bonefire was cooled.

One night, after dinner, after all the town had gone to sleep, the four of them laid awake.

They each knew each other well enough that they each knew they were all awake.

“Why do you think the plates are for?” asked Soe.

“Don’t know,” said Mia.

“Don’t know,” said Tea.

“Don’t know,” said Leo.

“Are you hungry?” asked Mia.

“A little,” said Tea.

“A little,” said Leo.

“A little,” said Soe.

“Should we see what happens to the plates in the morning?” asked Tea.

“Yeah” said Leo

“Yeah” said Soe

“Yeah” said Mia

“Can you sleep?” asked Leo.

“No.”

“No.”

“No.”

Without saying anything else, the group slipped out of their sleeping bags and slid on their undergarments.

The group went out into the darkness, and they each hid under a side of the table that the village would eat at.

Then, from Soe’s side of the table, there was a bubbling sound.

The bubbling sound grew louder, and Soe lit a a small stick to see.

What they all say was massive fish, floating in a bubble of water.

Soe quickly put out the light before the fish saw.

The bubbling came to the center of the table, then it departed

Then, from Mia’s side of the table, there was a stomping sound.

The stomping grew louder and and Mia lit a small stick to see.

What they all saw was a massive elk, it’s brown fur shining and it’s horns pointed to she sky.

Mia quickly put out the light before the elk saw.

The stomping came to the center of the table, then it departed.

Then, from Tea’s side of the table, there was a flapping sound.

The flapping grew louder and Tea lit a small stick to see.

What they all saw was a massive hawk, flapping in the moon.

Tea quickly put out the light before the hawk saw.

The flapping came to the center of the table, then it departed.

Then, from Leo’s side of the table, there was no sound at all.

Leo lit a small stick to see.

They all could see nothing.

Leo put out his light anyway.

When day came, the four plates at the center of the table were empty.

Wrote this after listening to politician wax on about why human beings are inherently greedy.

Got me thinking about cultures that focus more on the group that the individual.

As you probably guessed, I googled the bean paste thing because I have no “Home” culture and it’s important that fairytales feel like someone elses home.

I pronounced it it my head like

Tea: Tey-Ay

Soe: So-Ay

Mia: My-A

Leo: Lee-Oh

536 words

[bens-daily-writing]

Week two Day two: Character

Prompt: Hooves

Previous works with the same character: 1

Name: Erica “Mason Jar of Spiders” Sanders 

Story:

Erica was 11 when she “went through her pony phase”.

It is commonly held motherly wisdom that every little girl falls in love with idea of ponies at some point.

It is also motherly wisdom that this phase will never last long.

So Erica’s mother, Patricia Sanders, was quick to act.

She signed herself and her daughter up for a two-week long pony camp.

The purpose of this was twofold; to have something new to discuss with her friends and to gain common ground with her child.

What Erica’s mother failed to understand is that Erica wasn’t going through a pony phase.

Her friend, Lavender, was going through a pony phase.

And you can enjoy anything when you’re 11 and talking to your best friend.

When Erica came home and found that her mother had, without telling her, stolen the first two weeks of her summer off to some crummy horse camp, she cried and stomped to into her room.

Patricia cried to her husband, Micheal, about the way kids are these days, how she is completely unable to understand them, how...

Micheal is thinking about his job.

He enjoys the physical closeness of her cuddling up to him for comfort, but his mind is on complex maths and computer programs.

He thinks, perhaps callously, that this is not irregular, and that he should not set aside special consideration for it.

When, in a few days, Erica confesses that she’d be stolen for the first two weeks of summer, Lavender goes quiet.

This concerns Erica more than tears or anger would as she doesn’t know what to do.

Sad and mad are screaming and shouting and crying.

Erica doesn’t know what to do.

She leaves.

When summer comes the painful moment when Lavender was quiet resurfaces, Erica again isn’t sure what to do.

They, and the 26 other children in the class, are fidgeting as the last day ends.

Their teacher, Mr. Ross, is smart enough to have given up on teaching, and is just focused on keeping the rowdier students in line.

It was two minutes from dismissal, and that meant the first half of the class would go into cubby area and get their backpacks, then the other half would go into there to get their backpacks, and then the whole class would line up.

But more importantly, it meant it was two minutes from when Erica wouldn’t be able to talk to Lavender anymore.

Erica wanted to say something, but she couldn’t think of anything.

Lavender looked quiet and worried.

Erica supposed it would have to wait another two weeks.

One minute until dismissal.

Leo, from the back of the class, shouts.

Mr. Ross politely reminds him to use his inside voice.

It’s thirty seconds until dismissal.

Every child is bouncing their legs.

Mr. Ross walks into the cubby area, a habit meaning he was getting ready to dismiss.

20 seconds until dismissal.

“Erica!” Lavender hissed in a stage whisper.

Erica looks to her friend and Lavender leans and inch away from her face.

They freeze.

Then Lavender leans around and plants a peck on Erica’s cheek.

Erica’s skin sets on fire.

Mmmmm....

everything is gay...

writing is hard

533 words

[bens-daily-writing]

FAQ

Whats this?

A daily writing blog!

Who are you?

I’m Ben!

What kinds of things do you write?

I have a list of things I want to practice (Here)

Each of those practices repeat in a kinda random order every two weeks.

With each of the things I want to practice comes a prompt, usual one or two words.

What does each of the items on the list mean?

Location: Trying to describe a space by look and feel.

Dialogue: Two or more characters talking. Emphasis on making it flow and making it believable.

Action: Someone doing something. Fighting, having sex, juggling, anything.

Action/Dialogue: One or more characters talking while doing something. Emphasis on mixing the action and what the characters are doing.

Action/Location: One or more characters doing something that directly involves the space they’re in.

Character: Trying to create, from the power of my brain a lone, something that is a relatable and well-rounded character.

Word count: Trying to write a non-story with an exact word count. This could be poetry, or a physical description, or almost anything.

Style practice: Trying to write mimic a specific style. It could in the style of a history textbook, or a famous author or poet.

Complete story: The goal is just to create a complete story, start to finish. Characters, prose and eloquence come second.

Experimental: Get weird with it! Not sure what this will look like.

Free day: I get to do whatever!

Break: Might feel redundant with a free day, but I’ve been writing for 13 days, let me have this.

Why do you repeat character three times in a week?

That’s something I wanted to practice more, because I find writing complete characters super hard.

So for the first day I’ll start creating a new character and I’ll flesh them over the rest of the Character days.

What if you’re not happy with a character after two weeks?

Then I’ll keep writing them next week, and try and get them right.

Won’t that hold up your schedule?

Nope!

It’s all about practice.

Even if it takes me a few months to nail down a character completely, I want to practice it before moving onto another.

Is there anything else weird with the schedule?

Nothing other than Characters will stay the focus over the two weeks.

Every other story type will change around, meaning the location won’t be the same for Location/Action as it will be for just Location.

What do you tag?

NSFW, Violence, the week I wrote it during (Week one, week two, ect.) and what it was I wrote (character, action, ect.)

Can I send in prompts/critique/other stuff?

Sure!

Just keep it civil and SFW.

[bens-daily-writing]

Schedule

Hey!

I’ll be writing everyday, trying to practice specific writing skills.

To help me do that, I have a two week loop of things I’m trying to work on.

This is the current list.

The order will switch up, so look out of posts tagged “#Week List” to see what I’ll be writing that week.

[bens-daily-writing]

Week Two schedual

[bens-daily-writing]

Day seven week one: Prose

Prompt: double

Every man has a double, every woman has a double.

Some born together, some apart

A twin, a doppelganger.

Every man has a double, every woman has a double.

Some are born equal, some are born opposite.

A rival, a soulmate.

Every man has a double, every woman has a double.

For everyone, there is a two.

For God alone is matchless.

And She wants none other to suffer like She has

Writing is hard, but I like the way this feels.

Im doing this on my phone, so Ill add word count and breaks whens I'm not.

I don't remember what the catagory was supposed to be.

72 words.

[bens-daily-writing]

Week one, Day six: Action/dialogue

Prompt: Tool shed.

Jeremy went wrist deep into a bucket of assorted tools and trash.

“What does it look like?” asked Henry, who was halfheartedly leaning over an open drawer and peering inside.

Jeremy sighed and stopped worming around his arm.

“How do you not know what a ball-peen hammer looks like?” he said, setting aside the bucket and crouching under a desk to find another.

“Why is this full of leaves?” he said to himself before Henry could answer his question.

“I’m gay Jerms, what do want from me?“ Henry said, finally reaching into the shelf and sliding aside a few screwdrivers.

“Basic literacy in tools,” answered Jeremy before he shoved the bucket of leaves back under his wooden desk.

“And I am also gay,” He added after a moment.

“Mmm, are you?” asked Henry, turning around to to look at Jeremy.

Jeremy turned around and his eyes lock with Henry.

“Yes.” he said, and he turned around again.

Henry hummed again.

“I dunno Jerms. Looking for tools? Sounds straight to me...”

Jeremy groaned audibly and threw his head back.

“Henry, I sucked your dick like two hours ago, help me find this fucking hammer or you’re sleeping on the couch.”

Jeremy turned to face Henry.

He had his arms crossed.

He was pouting.

“Fine.” he said after a minute.

I’m really happy with this one.

I’m on prompt and the writing is ok.

218 words.