#/r/writingprompts

[amarantine-amirite]

Back To School

Katie grabbed her backpack and headed out the door. “I’m off to school”

Jill, Katie’s mom, got her belongings and car keys and went right behind. “I’ll come with you”

Katie stopped in the doorway. “I can get myself there,” she said a she gestured to the school

Jill shook her head. “No, I mean I’m coming to school with you,” she said

Katie laughed for a little bit, but soon grimaced and tipped her head to one side. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not,” Jill shook her head.

Katie didn’t know it, but new rules meant high school diplomas aren't valid unless your school days are under 8 hours long. previously, the school day was set to 6 hours long. Interestingly, the regulatory changes affected not just all children currently in school, but people who graduated prior to the implementation of mandatory extracurriculars, since mandatory extracurriculars effectively lengthen the school day to the new length. This meant adults over the age of 30 have to go back to high school.

Nobody was prepared for the consequences. It began very simply: more parents going to school with their kids equals parents noticing just how badly their kids are bullied.  

Katie has any number of girls come after her. Morghen pretends to be nice, only to go behind her back and humiliate Katie. Mia constantly lobs cruel remarks in Katie’s direction Sonja sets “the rules” about who’s in an and who’s out, and Katie is always out by default.

Jill had the pleasure of witnessing this encounter.

Morghen turned around at her desk to speak to Katie. “So Katie, what do you think about Andy?” she asked sweetly 

Andy was Sonja’s ex boyfriend. Sonja had a rule that said that thanks to feminism, ex-boyfriends were off limits. 

Katie shrugged and played with her strawberry blonde hair. “He’s nice…I guess?” she said hesitantly.

To an outside observer, the conversation ended there. But it was only part one. Part two would come later.

later in the day, the kids waited for their second period teacher to arrive. Morghen turned to the person sitting next to her and said, “so, that skank finally made her move on Sonja’s ex!”

Jill was confused and didn't seem to like where the conversation was headed. “What skank?” she asked

Morghen was too stupid to realize she was talking to an adult, not another teenager. She blurted out, “Katie.”

Jill’s jaw dropped on her eyebrows moved so close together you can put a quarter between them. “You mean my daughter?” Morghen blinked in response

Jill let her think she got away with it. That is, until gym class rolled around. During a game of volleyball, Jill spotted Morghen and Mia lobbing the ball at Katie’s face and she did the same thing right back at them, but a thousand times harder. She also took the liberty of lobbying a second ball with Morghen's head as payback for the gossip in the back stabbing. A 75 year old man tried to outdo Jill, but pulled his groin because he can’t move like that anymore. 

Mia and Morghen were far from the only kids injured by a parent retaliating against them for bullying their child. Since parents know just how badly the kids are bullied and how inept the schools are at handling it, they use their strength to take matters into their own hands. As a result, kids get injured more during gym class, and the over 60s get priority even if the kids' injuries are more severe.

Increased parental supervision at school didn’t stop at aggressively squishing out bullying. It became a lot easier for parents to police who their kids can hang out with, thereby spelling the end of the Goths, the bleacher creatures, and the less academically inclined nerds.

By the end of the year, the school was barely recognizable as the place it was at the beginning. No more gym class due to too many injuries. With more supervision from adults, kids now need permission from their parents to talk to the other kids, and the parents only give permission if they could talk to the other kid’s parent, even if the kids ultimately didn’t get along. 

Source

[justbeingme4177]

The 'R" Words ®️🆒️ Part 1

http://eo2inspire.com/2024/03/26/the-r-words-%ef%b8%8f-%f0%9f%86%92%ef%b8%8f-part-1/

[yokowan]

it is the nature of r/writingprompts to occasionally re-invent blade runner

[hopefulidiocy]

PROMPT

“You are a Vampire, and your partner is a Vampire Hunter. They found out a few days ago, and left in the night. Now they’ve returned with tears in their eyes and a stake in their hands.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/s/PILrNdOwjB - link to the original post.‼️

‼️I absolutely loved this idea as a cute filler between my requested stuff. Hope you enjoy :)

VampireHunter!Aemond x Vampire!Reader

He knows. He knows. He knows.

That’s all that went through your head for the past three days after Aemond found out your deadly secret. You’re a Vampire. And he fucking hates Vampires. Most people do these days, some horrific propaganda has been circulating about them. They will come for your children in the night! Was a favourite amongst the Smallfolk and every evening when you and Aemond walked, arm in arm, there was a hanging Vampire on the City Walls with a stake through their heart. A new one every day. The walls were coming in closer, every second you were being sought out even though no one suspected it.

The day he found out went like any other, you made breakfast and ate together… you made love that day and it was the most magical moment, an energy surge, the Gods must’ve tried to tell you that this would be the last time you held him in your arms, the last time he would tell you he loved you. He left for work not long after, going around and torturing your people as if they meant nothing, as if they didn’t have people who loved them.

There are murderers, kidnappers, horrific people walking around these very walls and still they aren’t as bad as Vampires. No, Vampires are worse. They suck on the blood of innocent people but had no one ever thought for one second that Vampires can also be innocent. You, for example, haven’t feasted on a human being since you were a child. Since the Hunters began their miserable torture of you and your people. You still remembered your mother, writhing in pain as they strung her up the large oak tree and the crowd that gathered when the glinting stake twinkled before splatting her insides. You remembered the tear marked cheeks your sister had, her teeth bare and your father hollowing out so much so that he never came back to who he used to be.

You lived under the radar until you fell in love with the enemy, until you tasted the heavenly sweetness of the enemy, you never thought about hurting him, you never would hurt a human. You feasted on raw meat from animals, the way most Smallfolk would eat from being too poor to create proper food.

You thought about his eye, how he leaked just one tear when he saw your bare teeth for the first time. You didn’t even know he would be back so early, you were drinking the blood of some animal that your sister brought to you and you relished in that taste of iron when Aemond was at the door, his bag slumped beside his feet, his mouth making a small ‘o’ shape as you wiped your mouth. Of course, he thought it was the blood of an innocent human. The words that came out of his mouth, the disgusting stereotyped words… you would never forget it. And then the door slammed shut, you were on your knees, sobbing and begging for him to just listen.

But he didn’t listen.

You were making dinner, some raw beef and a cup of plasma that you grew yourself secretly in the attic. You were about to sit down when the door opened, your heart thumped hard against your chest, you knew this was coming, you knew the end was coming but you begged the Gods above that he wouldn’t be the love of your life. Aemond stood there, disheveled with the largest stake you had ever seen in your life, his face was a tornado of hurt and anger, you wished you could just hold him but he was disgusted by the sight of you. He approached, slowly like a cat, before lurching towards you. You managed to dodge him, your hands up in surrender.

“Aemond, let me explain all of this.” You whispered, looking at the hate on his face as his hand gripped the stake harder.

“No need for an explanation, y/n. You’ve been free for too long.” He spat.

“You don’t mean that, Aemond.” You were shocked by his venomous words, the difference between him now and him at the beginning of the week.

“I mean every word, you’re a disgusting creature and it’s time we rid all of you from this world.” He lunged forward again, you caught his wrist before it plunged into your heart, he was shaking.

“You’re shaking. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to kill me.” You managed, your mouth drying up.

“I do.” He swallowed hard.

“No, Aemond. You haven’t let me explain anything, you haven’t given me that right. I deserve that.” You said.

“Don’t you think I deserved to know I married a fucking vampire?” He whispered, hatefully.

“You did deserve it. But how could I tell you? You make a living out of killing my people. I knew that one day you would find out and you would kill me, but I just wanted to taste what happiness truly felt like, and I regret I didn’t have longer with that.” Tears were streaming down your face, you must look like your mother. His breathing hitched, the stake stumbled slightly in his hand before he strengthened his grip towards your heart.

“Don’t make this harder for me, y/n.” He whispered. “Please.” A sad, lonely tear trickled down his porcelain skin and instinctively you reached up, your hand cupped his cheek as your thumb softly grazed the tear away. Such a gentle touch, it was barely anything, but both of you broke down. Ugly crying as he held the stake at you, your hand on his face and you knew from the outside this was such an odd sight.

“I wish, so badly, I wasn’t like this. I truly begged for the Gods to take it away from me after my mother was strung up on a tree in our safe little village, when the light shut off inside her. I remember the way the breeze whipped around my hair as she left me, and I decided, as did my family, to turn to the blood of animals. I’ve never touched a human except in love. I would never.” You whispered, removing your hand.

“This is my job, y/n. I have to do this. I’m so sorry.” He said, wiping his tears and holding the stake high above his head.

You resigned to your fate and you would look into his eyes as he killed you, you would let him be haunted by the light leaving your eyes after his hand killed you in the middle of Spring. You saw him purse his lips, his arm shaking as he held it high in the air. Tears stained your cheeks as he breathed in, you were ready to see your mother again. So you watched as the stake came tumbling down, but it didn’t pierce your heart, instead it fell to the ground. He couldn’t do it.

“I’m sorry.” He wiped his mouth and turned away from you. “I cannot kill you. I can’t do it.” He turned to face you again, your heart beating as you crashed into his chest, your tears staining his shirt. “Gods, I love you, y/n. You have to understand, my loyalty lies with the Crown and the King ensured me with this duty.”

“I love you too, Aemond. It’s okay, we’ll find a way around it, I promise.” You stared up at him, stroking his long hair.

“You made me the happiest man alive.” He reached for your cheek, stroking them softly just like he did when you made love earlier in the week. “You are the most radiant, beautiful woman and I’ll never have another like you.”

“Aemond? What are you talking about?” You backed away then, wringing your own hands together.

“I’m truly sorry, y/n.” He gave a quick nod before the Hunters came tumbling into the house, taking you by the arms and pinning them behind your back. You writhed against their grip, screaming out and gulping for air as they dragged you harshly out of the house. Aemond couldn’t watch for a second longer before he had to turn around, you saw his shoulders begin to shake.

“Aemond!” You screamed, a guttural cry, before they brought you to the Town Square, where people were chanting with stakes in their hands, pinning you down to the ground. “Aemond!” You wrestled against their ropes and ties, you begged for him to come for you and help you out, you knew he didn’t want this to happen. You knew he didn’t want you to die.

But he didn’t come for you.

[transformers-spike]

Imagine if this is the approach the decepticons took when taking over earth.

There's a few different threads to read through but they're all epic

https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/s/Y1PY96UnUG

(tl:dr human governing and economy are so fked that the people willingly rolled over for the cons taking over. )

holy shit this is so good Minus the whole cyberforming Earth bit, I think the Decepticons could actually make pretty good use of humanity. As long as humans eat, are housed and get adequate sleep and healthcare, they're pretty eager to work. They end up creating better workplace motivation than irl world leaders

[alexanderwales]

I'm a long time lover of /r/WritingPrompts, but reddit's structure encourages prompts to catch the eye and tell the story, leaving relatively little for a writer to do. The strongest prompts in the upvote ecosystem aren't the prompts that make for the best story, they're the prompts that contain "full" hook, often including in its entirety the most obvious and compelling parts of the prompt.

And if you're writing shorts for /r/WritingPrompts, you're left to mine out new material, which often depends upon assuming the reader has read the prompt itself, and this fundamentally doesn't work for making good short fiction, at least in my opinion. The prompt serves as exposition you can't easily do in a short story, and the short fiction gets mired in the conditions it was made under, namely as a prompt response rather than a story for someone to stumble across.

I do not think I've cracked the code for "prompts that are actually good for making short fiction from", especially since "strong short hook" seems like it's better for hooking people on a prompt than hooking people on a story.

[afinepricklypear]

Broken

Found this while digging through old writing. I think this came from a Reddit r/writingprompt...it's not finished and I don't remember what I was going to do with it, though I gleam a vague idea when I read it. Maybe someone else can tell me how it should end.

Mom turned the news on to a story about the Broken as we ate breakfast. They’d been in the news a lot more lately, now that a new medical facility was opening up in downtown Los Angeles offering them free services like padded cells and experimental treatments for their condition. The Broken had been around for as long as I could remember, but mom told me once there were no Broken when she was a little girl. Everyone back then was whole and complete and nothing bad ever happened. She blamed the Broken on Progressives voting to give rights to every deviant of society and the Wars that followed.

“Asses,” mom muttered under her breath, spooning more scrambled eggs onto my plate. She all but slammed the pan back on the stove top and stomped back to her chair, “Real people are in need of help, our soldiers can’t get the medical care they need, but we’re dishing out taxpayer dollars to help these freaks. Typical.”

I nibbled at my food and then pushed it away, “I’m not hungry.”

I had looked into the origins of the Broken when I was thirteen. No one knew how they came about or why. One day a person would be absolutely normal, and the next they could be flying through the air or shooting laser beams out of their eyes. It wasn’t like in the comic books though, mom would say, and I would nod in a partial understanding.

I’d only seen one comic book in my life, a slim paperback held together with stapled bindings, more of a pamphlet than a book. It featured lavish drawings on the cover of a man larger than life wearing a blue suit and flowing red cape. The head librarian, Mr. Samuel, kept it hidden in the back until someone let the information slip to the wrong person. Protectors of the Perfect raided the library on a hot September Saturday. They tore up encyclopedias and books of poetry in search. When they found the comic book, they bagged it up as evidence and Mr. Samuel, along with several other librarians, were handcuffed and led from the building.

I never got to read the comic book, I was always too afraid, but I knew some kids that did read it. They told kids gathered round them in hushed tones, excited voices, that the Broken in that comic book story was a hero that saved lives. We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that revelation. The very idea of a Broken wanting to save anyone, to put anyone before themselves, was too ridiculous to comprehend.

“What? You only ate two bites. Finish your breakfast,” mom said. I stared blank at the eggs piled high next to a half-eaten piece of toast on my plate until mom snatched it away and marched into the kitchen, tossing the whole thing with a resounding crash into the sink, “You’re just like your father. Go get ready for school.”

I hurried from the table down the hall and into my bedroom, shut the door quietly behind me. I knew better than to push when mom was in that kind of a mood. It was talk of the Broken on TV that made her that way.

Dad left when I was five. I have one memory of all of us together as a complete family. We were at the beach feeding the gulls. I stood on the edge of the pier, my hooded sweatshirt billowing around me, my hair bunched up at the nape of my neck. I kept throwing the bread pieces too close to my feet, or into the water, and the gulls weren’t taking them. Dad tried to help and mom stood by watching, a camera in her hands. I used to look for the pictures she took every night after she went to sleep, digging through old boxes in the garage. I had a distant idea of what dad’s face looked like, a notion of his eye and hair color, a concept of his nose placement and the breadth of his mouth. But they were like a dream image, a jigsaw puzzle and the pieces kept jumbling up. He often smelled of cinnamon, I remember that much, because he was always sucking on a cinnamon candy.

I pulled out a few clothes from my bureau and started dressing. T-shirt and jeans, slightly frayed, a few holes here and there, paint stains and charcoal smudges. Mom would pitch a fit when she saw: you have brand new clothes in those drawers - people are going to think we’re homeless.

I tossed my half-finished homework into my book-bag and finger combed my hair, grabbed a pair of shoes on my way out of the bedroom and to the front door. I didn’t slow in my pace when mom called to me, and I didn’t bother saying good-bye. She was in the kitchen scrubbing the dishes; it seemed I’d ruined dinner.

In fourth grade I started telling people my dad was Broken. When they asked about him, I made up wild stories about the powers he had and how they manifested. “He woke up one day and could freeze everything he touched. The entire house was a popsicle by the time I got out of bed,” I would say, or, “We were in a car accident, the car had flipped over trapping mom and me, and his strength was suddenly ten times that of a regular man. He picked the car up with one hand and set it right on the ground.”

“What was he like after that?” people would ask. They always wanted to know what he was like. No one knew a Broken firsthand; they’d only ever heard the stories about the mother of a cousin’s sister’s friend’s best friend’s third cousin twice removed.

“Different,” I would tell them vaguely, as if it was too hard for me to talk about, I’d get a little teary eyed too sometimes for effect, “He’d be there…but he wouldn’t at the same time, you know?”

Eventually stories circulated back around, though, and when people realized what I’d told Jack wasn’t the same as what I’d told Jane, they figured out I’d been lying. People don’t talk to me at school much anymore, which is fine. I keep to myself in the art room most days. The art teacher, Miss Darcy, let’s me use the space during lunch and before and after school.

I never liked to draw or paint until I got into high school. In kindergarten I was the kid in the back of class eating my crayons, they tasted better than the pictures I drew. When I turned fourteen, though, one of my aunt’s gave me a set of sketch pencils and a small notebook for Christmas. I’m not sure there was any intention behind it, she gave all of the nieces and nephews the same gift that year and I always assumed it just meant that art supplies were on sale at the craft and hobby store.

It meant the world to me in the end though. It became my world. I started drawing everything I saw, mostly the things I only saw in my head. Eventually the book filled up and I needed a new one and mom refused to buy.

“What do you need a book to doodle in for? Focus on your schoolwork and stop wasting your time,” she complained when I asked. For awhile I started drawing on whatever paper or blank surface I could get my hands on instead, until I found the crafting aisle at Wal-Mart one day while mom was shopping for candy bars, five dollar DVDs, and a new bathrobe. I slipped a small notebook into my waistband, under my shirt. When the shoplifting alarm went off as we exited the store, mom threw enough of a fit about it that the clerk didn’t bother glancing my direction after our shopping cart checked out.

I found an art store nearby, close enough I could ride the bus to get there, and invested in a large purse. I wandered the aisles every other month and slipped things into my bag, sometimes I would purchase something small like an eraser or a couple new pencils , whatever the spare change I swiped off mom’s desk could buy me, just to keep the clerks from getting suspicious.

Art breathed into me, swept into my lungs a kind of air that got me high and kept my head spinning in the clouds. I signed up for art class in my sophomore year, ended up having to steal most of the “Materials Needed” listed on our syllabus, but it introduced me to new mediums: charcoal, paint, pastel, ink, and sculpture. It grew my world and brought Miss Darcy into my life. She started buying me art supplies, bringing me new things like brushes or different brands of pencils to try out. She joked that she was my manager and needed to cultivate my skills.

It didn’t matter what I drew, though, the images that poured from my mind and soaked into the paper weren’t the ones I wanted to capture. I wanted to see my father’s face, my mother’s smile, the house we lived in, the world before it shattered into a million pieces and left me scrounging for art supplies in the back alley.

I set up my sketchbook on the easel and skimmed through, illustrations dancing through the pages. I opened to a blank page and placed it on the easel then sat and stared for a long time before beginning my work. I began with the features that drawing out had become second nature to me, the number of times I’d sketched that face. I littered the pages with images and thought bubbles, and for the next hour turned the blank page into another installment of my latest project.

I don’t know why I started it. I don’t even quite know when I started it. I wasn’t sure if I was drawing it right or if it made sense. I think back to days when I was small, wishing I could grab the stars out of the sky and hold them tight against me, and I imagine that working on this project is similar to that action. Impossible and beautiful.

[darth-razmus]

Sauce: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/s/v5vOKthI2c

[nunalastor]

Just saw a prompt on r/WritingPrompts that said 'Two brothers in their 70s comparing their cooking techniques,' and I would die for a short story of this with Michael and Lucifer.

👀

[liquidchefsblog]

https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/s/QoEUgTYA9J

Was from a writing prompt on reddit, link above.

Pulling up slowly to my apartment in a new black Mazerati, I turn towards my date for the evening.

"Well, we are here. Are you sure you didn't want me to drop you off back home?" I say with a nervous laugh.

"Haha, no, not at all. I am curious to see what your home looks like, plus you promised to show me some of your artwork." She winks back at me, with an incredible yet devious smile.

I laugh again, scratching the top of my hand, a nervous tick I have had for ages. Only it's been getting worse.

"I ummm... huh... I have a cat. You did say you allergic to cats, right?"

I am basically sweating in my seat. She must think that I am weird or some kind of killer at this point, right? I mean, what guy says no to a woman wanting to come inside his home on the first date.

"Aaaawwwww... no, I love cats, now i have to go inside, I have to pet the cute little guy!" She screams back. Her smile widened with joy and excitement.

I climb out of the car and make my way towards her side. Opening the door for her, extending my hand, and helping the beautiful lady out of the car. She was 5'11, with light brown hair. Beautiful tan skin and gorgeous red lips, with a sexy white short and tight dress to match. I couldn't believe I matched with such a beauty on Tinder.

We make our way to my apartment. She leans her entire body on me. I try to move back a little.

"You seem very different than on the date, very distant, did I do something or say something." She asks worriedly.

"Wha...what? No... no... I huh, sorry, I am just a bit tense. You have done nothing wrong at all!"

"OK, just that most guys don't try and get rid of me or become so distant at this point. Plus, i really like you. You seem so different than most other rich guys." She looks at me with those exquisite dark brown eyes, lips pouting.

"Look, let's go inside, I open a bottle of wine, we relax. You can also pet the cat, you got really excited about him, right?. He will love you." I smile the best I can, attempting to not show any sign of nervousness.

We arrive at my new apartment. I fumble for the keys like a fool. Finally, I got myself together and found the right god damn keys. I opened the door. As we entered, Mr. snuggles come jolting from the corner. Meowing loud and rubbing himself all over us.

She bends down and gives him a scratch. His purring invites her to pick him up.

"Why don't we go to the kitchen and pour ourselves some wine." My nervous quivering grin can barely be contained.

"I don't think I have seen a breed like this before. Where did you say you got your cat? Since he was a kitten or was it a stray or something?" She barely looks at me, completely fixated on the cat. Carrying him all the way to the kitchen.

"Hahaha... Well, it's a funny story. I don't think you would even believe me." I reply with my back turned , hiding the fact I am scratching the tops of my hand in fear at this point. Breaking skin as I do so.

"Ooohhh, whatever, you can tell me. I am a sucker for love stories, you know... hahaha." She replied, still fixated on Mr. Snuggles as he continues to rub his head on her hand and body, purring. Giving off soft little meows as if he is some innocent little kitty!

"I was part of a cult actually, a while back. We decided to perform a ritual that would summon the beasts of Hades to perform our devious tasks. You know? The usual money, hot girls, and power. Instead of an awesome looking demon, we got Mr. Snuggles instead... haha funny right."

She raises her head. I could feel her sarcastic gaze.

"Well, I know cats can be little demons, but no one's has put it like that before. So you are a painter, scuplter, and all of a sudden, a comedian now, right?"

" I really wish I was just joking. Look at me, I am a scrawny, nerdy, and extremely insecure guy. If he wanted you to really see how I was, you wouldn't be here! All of this l wealth, fancy cars, and apartment cone from all the women I have to sacrifice to Mr. Snuggles!" I snap at her. Realizing the mistake I had just made. I return my focus back on the wine, finally finding the glasses.

"Aaahhhh... Someone help me! I need protection from Mr. Sexy serial killer and his cute little kitty"

Her sarcastic playful tone slowly turns into something more hideous as Mr. Snuggles head turns a complete 360. I turn around, I notice as her eyes turn into shock and horror. Her face frozen as Mr. Snuggles locked his eyes into hers.

"Like I have been saying this entire, I tried to warn you!" I remark, no emotion, just complete melancholy to the situation. I have seen this almost 100 times. Always the same, always having to watch this stupid cat traumatize me over and over again.

Before a word can be uttered from her stunning red lips. Mr. Snuggles pounces. In one fatal move, he devoured her whole. Nothing was left of my date. No shoes, hair, blood. Everything just vanished into the cats large void, a giant mouthful. Gone in seconds.

Mr. Snuggles lands on his feet. Licking his paws, as though nothing had happened. He turns his gaze toward me, and he slowly makes his way toward me. I try my hardest to back away, but the kitchen counter blocks my poor attempt at escape. He begins scratching his head onto me, legs and purring. He stops, without any thought or realization, he pounces on to me. His claws in my chest.

"Meow."

"Yessss... Yesss... Yessss, I won't do it again. I promise, I... I.... won't try and warn them ever." Tears running down my eyes, the smell of my blood as it begins pour out from the deep gashes of his claws.

"Meow."

"Ok, ok.... ow ow ow... please stop, I promise I won't do it again."

"Meeeeeooooowwwww"

"Yeessss... I promise, I really... really... promise... let goooo!" I cry put, tears streaming down my face.

"Meow!"

"I will clean your litter box to Mr. Snuggles, sir. Please let go."

He drops to the ground. Stretching his back and making his way to he master bedroom. I ran to clean his litter box. The smell makes me extremely nauseous. Unsure how long I can continue this blood shed. The sixth girl this month. His hunger only grows worse every month. Plus, he ruined a very good Versace designer shirt.

As I finish cleaning the large mess. I make my way to the master bedroom. Changing into my night gown. I crawl on all fours into my cage beside the bed. Mr. Snuggles always get's the king-size bed.

"Goodnight, I whisper to him." Pale, and expressionless.

[howtonerdoutovereverything]

Cat's Eye: An Original Story Based On a Prompt from r/writingprompts

Miranda’s eyes opened, bleary and foggy. All she could see was a vague, wiggling patch of white in front of her, incomprehensible shapes swirling around in an almost hypnotic way. Her eyelids felt like they had bricks attached to them, and she nearly shut them once more, but a tugging curiosity caused her to force them open, cutting through the blank void.

Blades upon blades of grass were lined up in irregular clumps. Lifting her gaze, Miranda could make out a blue sky with puffy clouds dotting it in the way they always do during springtime. A light breeze passed over her, waking her up a bit more and driving her to start trying to move and figure out where she was.

She attempted to stand up, but found that she couldn’t; perhaps she had fallen and broken her legs. But then again, she didn’t feel any pain. Maybe they were just numb.

Oh, well. If she had to crawl around to get help or some answers (or both), then so be it. She’d done worse for either of those things.

Miranda pushed herself forward, before abruptly stopping. Why did her hands feel so…light?

Miranda looked down again, sucking in a breath when she did.

Those were not her hands.

They were far too small and far too orange to be her hands.

Miranda’s head started spinning. What on Earth was going on?! She darted forward, desperately looking around, the world seeming much bigger and much less colorful now (the latter of which she had somehow only just noticed). She tried making some sort of noise, but all that exited her mouth was a wailing mewl, which only confirmed her fear.

This wasn’t happening. This absolutely wasn’t happening.

Miranda mewled more, feeling her new pointy ears twitch as she tried to seek out someone, anyone, who could help her in any way. Maybe this was some wild dream, and finding someone in her dream world would break the illusion and she’d wake up completely normal.

Spying a hole in an old fence, Miranda lept through and ventured down the road, all the while still meowing for help. She felt extremely pathetic doing so, but that was trumped by the absolute panic coursing through her. Perhaps her bright orange fur was pricking up. If that’s how that worked.

After traveling a decent distance and resisting the strange urge to swat at the birds that flew past her, Miranda’s wide green eyes landed on her first trace of familiarity since she’d woken up.

Her house! That was her house! The dark brown roof, the dirty white siding, the daffodils and tulips that she had so carefully cultivated in the flower bed…it was unmistakable.

Miranda picked up her speed and headed toward the porch. Her first instinct was to try for the front door before she realized that she now lacked opposable thumbs and therefore couldn’t get it open or ring the doorbell. She’d paw at it, but there was that ever-present fear in her head that she’d somehow break the glass, and she was NOT about to pay to get that fixed again after she got herself out of whatever mess she was in.

Whatever. They had a backyard. She’d just go there and meow for attention.

So go there she did, making her way along the path to the patio, the bricks rough against her padded feet. The sun was shining brightly now, the wind having calmed down, leaving behind a relatively mild day.

But Miranda didn’t ponder the weather too much, as her eyes locked on something she couldn’t ignore.

Jamie.

Miranda nearly lept with joy, bolting to where her son sat on the patio, glumly staring at his hands. The look on his face made Miranda’s rapidly beating heart want to explode into a million pieces.

Thankfully, her son noticed her quickly, his facial expression quickly changing into that of surprise. “Kitty! What are you doing here? I’ve never seen you before…”

It’s me, Jamie, Miranda wanted to say so badly. Baby, it’s me. I’m here now. But she couldn’t get the words out.

Jamie held out his tiny hand, and Miranda rubbed her head against it, feeling a deep rumble in her chest as her son gently massaged her head. Jamie let out a little giggle at this, only prompting Miranda to continue.

“You’re a nice kitty,” Jamie said, his sweet smile lighting up his face. “I wanna keep you, but I have to ask my daddy first,”

Miranda’s heart melted. He was such a good boy.

Jamie waved his hand to get Miranda to follow her to the back door, and of course she complied. Jamie struggled to turn the doorknob, but once he got it, he threw the door open, calling out, “Daddy! Daddy! I found a kitty outside!”

Miranda looked up happily. Her husband Brett was staring down at her in complete surprise, as though she was a total stranger and not someone he’d known for nearly 20 years. But, of course, she understood why.

“Where did you find it?” Brett asked, now looking at Jamie.

“It ran to me on the porch! And it let me pet it! It loves me and I love it! I wanna keep it!”

Brett laughed, the warm sound of it causing Miranda’s chest to flutter. “I’m sure you do, honey. But maybe this kitty belongs to someone else and wants to go home,”

“But it doesn’t have a thing on its neck!”

“A collar?”

“Yeah, a collar! It doesn’t have a home! It can stay with us!”

“Jamie, are you sure you wanna take care of a cat?” Brett asked gently, clearly not completely opposed to the idea but wanting to make sure Jamie understood what he was asking for. “It’s a lot of work,”

“I can do work!” Jamie squealed. “I can take care of it!”

“Well, alright, then,” Brett agreed. “We’ll take care of this cat together, you and I,”

“Yay!” Jamie cheered. “You’re the best, Daddy! Thank you!”

“Of course, baby,” Brett kissed the top of Jamie’s head.

Meanwhile, Miranda could hardly stand still. How lucky was she? She got to stay at her house while this was all happening! Maybe now, she could figure out a way to let Brett know what was going on and work on how to fix it.

But for now, Miranda was content with sprawling out on the floor and letting Jamie pet her fluffy back. Now she understood why cats loved this so much; it felt AWESOME. Brett eventually crouched down and started petting her as well, his calloused hands feeling nice against her fur.

After a few solid minutes of petting, Jamie piped up.

“Mommy would’ve loved this cat,”

Brett stopped petting her for a moment, sighing sadly, his eyes all of a sudden traveling to some distant, cold place.

“Yeah…” he whispered. “She would’ve,”

And that was when Miranda remembered it.

She had died.

This wasn’t a weird dream or a freak accident out of some cheesy sci-fi B-movie. She had died in a cold, dreary hospital on a rickety hospital bed, extremely nauseous and in more pain than she thought she could ever be in her life, her husband sobbing next to her and her son holding her hand, desperately begging her with his little voice to stay awake.

She had fought her cancer for years, but it was all for naught. And now she was here.

Miranda tilted her head, mewing at her husband, trying in the only way she could to give him some comfort, to tell him it was OK, that she was here, and that she wasn’t going to leave him again. It had hurt too much the first time. She couldn’t bear to do it again.

“Hey!” Jamie said. “The cat has the same color eyes as Mommy!”

Brett’s mouth curved up into a tiny smile at that innocent observation. “Yeah. It does,”

Miranda purred. Suddenly being a cat didn’t seem like such a bad fate after all.

[meli-writes]

hey all of your kayspace pieces absolutely rule. looking forward to reading more

thank you so much <3 for some history, it's mistakes that started me writing after a 10 year hiatus of fic writing. i wrote on /r/writingprompts as a teen but the (lack of) metrics discouraged me (learned this lesson again on cohost, before turning off likes & shares) + dysphoria making me too self-conscious for my own good. aside from some worldbuilding and games writing it really was a long time since. cohost's writing prompts (and the copious mech lesbian fic i read one weekend in a hotel to inspire me) really helped a ton, as it did for a bunch of us.

the current pieces are part of an anthology 'sublimatic rose' that serves as a prequel/taster for a visual novel i'd like to do some day. it's been a while since i've written one of them but most assuredly there's more to come, sweet maretta has more to suffer lol.

[lemontongues]

mkay here's the short story! i wrote it about 5 years ago and have done a bit of cleaning up on it, but it's still basically the same as the original. it's based on this prompt from r/writingprompts:

"You are a God/Goddess who is dying due to not having any followers. That is until one day you feel a sacrifice made in your honor, when you look down you see a cat with a dead mouse."

word count: 1,644

content warnings: themes and non-violent depictions of animal death. cat lovers in particular may want to tread lightly; please take care of yourself!

enjoy!

*

There’s nothing.

For a long, long time, there’s been nothing. You remember, vaguely, but not much. You remember that the others had spoken of this in only the faintest of whispers, in quiet, shaky words quickly hushed.

You don’t see anymore. You used to. You can recall that there were colors, shapes, motions. There were sounds, too, tastes and smells, although you’re not sure what they were like anymore. You think people used to bring you such things, things with shapes and scents and colors. Bright and lovely, and you know that you were happy. They were displays of affection, devotion, resentment, longing, pretty trinkets and delicious morsels wrapped in the glorious and chaotic tapestry of emotion that humans always wore so well.

But lately everything has seemed so dim.

There’s nothing, except for the deep, dreadful knowing that you are dying the slow and unforgiving death of the forgotten god.

.

There’s air in your lungs.

There’s air in your lungs, and you gasp, choking. It’s harsh and warm and wonderful all at once, your chest too full and too empty, your throat burning as it works desperately. Your eyes fly open, and it’s almost too much to bear. You see again, and you feel, the blue of the sky and the heat of the sun and the metallic taste of your own, golden blood in your mouth as you weep and retch and shudder.

You don’t know how long it takes before the world resolves into something more than dazzling flashes of sensation, something you can parse. There are still tears coursing down your cheeks, leaving warm, itchy tracks along your skin, but no part of you can bear the thought of wiping them away, not when they feel like something.

You think it might be a long time before the heaving of your shoulders eases and the tears dry on your face, and it’s enough of a marvel that you still have a face, a body, an existence, that you almost forget what brought you back in the first place.

There it is. A tiny tug at the back of your mind, the faintest sensation of… annoyance, maybe? Impatience? It’s been so long since you’ve felt anything like it that you’re not sure you still have the words for it. Still, someone is waiting for you, and you push yourself to your feet, reveling in the pressure against your palms and the sharp ache of your knees.

You find yourself in the most sacred chamber of your dwelling, where you had lain yourself down in desperate hope, to be closer to prayers that had long since stopped coming. It almost makes you ill to look at it now, a wave of nausea that still thrills you as you gaze around yourself at the grave of your own choosing.

It doesn’t look so lovely as it once did. Most of the temple doorways have crumbled, collapsed, been dusted with snow or soot or shot through with creeping greenery. None of them are carefully tended to, clean and cheerful the way you remember them, and only a scant few still stand at all.

The tugging at the back of your head turns you slowly, trying to recall how you used to do this, follow that sensation to the source of the prayer. The feeling leads you left, and your eyes scan each ruined altar, but you can’t find—

There.

So small you nearly miss it. A faint, steady swishing like a paintbrush against a canvas, and a tiny splash of red against an altar that’s covered in the dusty brown and jeweled green of forest dirt and moss.

You’re not ready for the emotions that swell in you at the sight. An offering. After so long, so many years waiting, so many ages in the suffocating half-death of an immortal, someone has found you again. Joy and grief overwhelm you as you approach your own altar on your knees, awestruck and elated. Prickling wetness blurs your vision, but you reach out and cup the precious offering in trembling hands.

It’s small and soft and just barely warm, brownish and red and faintly damp. Raising it to your face, you blink away the tears.

It’s a dead mouse.

You don’t drop it. You don’t vomit, although that stubborn wave of nausea rises in your throat again. You cup it to your chest, press your lips carefully against it, just as you did long ago with the most precious of humanity’s hand-crafted offerings, the finest jewelry, the most savory and sumptuous of meals left at your altar. You try not to weep again as you bow solemnly to your lone worshipper. Your voice is a broken whisper, but you mean every word.

“Beloved child, you have done me the greatest of services. You have saved me from a lonely and terrible death, and I will be forever in your debt. Should you ever need my blessing or my guidance, you need only call upon me, for so long as you or your descendants walk this earth.”

The small, brindled cat blinks once, slowly, and stalks off with its tail in the air.

.

There’s an impressive collection of mouse skeletons in your chamber.

Each one is carefully preserved, the tiny bones laid out neatly in chronological order, and you remember each offering fondly. Hers are all in one corner close to your dais, with the smaller but growing collections from each of the kittens grouped below. You know you’ll run out of room eventually and have to start exploring what’s left of the other rooms in your old home to find more space for your treasures, but all this time it’s just felt like too daunting a task.

You wonder, sometimes, if the other gods know what you’re up to, if they think you odd or foolish. They probably felt you wake up, although you haven’t seen hide nor hair of any of them. You haven’t missed them. It’s good enough to be alive, to have one small follower and her broods of offspring to worship you in their strange way.

You can’t remember what you used to be the god of. You think by now, you’re probably a god of cats.

Maybe that’s why you’ve had an uncomfortable feeling prickling in the back of your mind for a long time now. It’s been stewing at the base of your skull, creeping slowly down your spine, a cold, shuddering feeling that’s too close to knowing for your own comfort.

Her fur is duller than it used to be. There’s cloudiness in her eyes, a hesitation in her smooth gait. It’s all too familiar; you ignored it, ignored it, ignored it until it was too late for you, but in her body, it’s impossible not to recognize.

You’ve had many followers in your time. Many who adored you, loved you so passionately they would have poured out their own lifeblood for your satisfaction, had you been such a god. Many who wept to you, begged you, kept their faith in you until their dying breath, and who you tried to do right by. You had loved them all, from the most devout to the most cynical half-believers, even those who had come to revile you when you couldn’t turn their luck.

But none of them have been so precious to you as the cat. You still think of her that way, although there are many cats now. The cat saved you, that first day and every day after, and the cat has been faithful even as she turns her back on you, disdains you, ignores your promises and your blessings. At first, you hadn’t known what to make of her, not after a lifetime of obvious, elaborate displays of human affection. Slowly, you’ve come to realize that she loves you, too, in her own capricious way.

You know what’s coming, in the same way that you knew, in a quiet, awful corner of your mind, what was coming when you laid down that last time.

.

The cat is at your altar again.

No, not quite—the cat is on your altar, and dreadful understanding washes through you as you watch her. She stumbles, her paws not quite holding her, and you want to reach out and catch her, to comfort her in her final moments, but such a crossing is impossible for you. Her children and grandchildren are there, all around the altar as far back as you can see, rows and rows of them sitting eerily silent, solemn and watching.

She stumbles, and your heart wrenches. You weep bitterly, and though you know you must watch these final moments, the greatest offering you’ll ever receive, you can’t seem to wipe the tears away fast enough to clear your vision. With awful finality, she topples, collapsing against the stone she’s spent years sweeping slowly clean with her tail, and you feel her last heartbeat as your own, a thousand times worse than any death you could ever suffer. The permanence of it clutches at you, the helplessness bleeding you dry, and you howl your despair, blind with pain as the grief scrapes you raw.

For a long time, you cover your face with your hands, lost to your own shame and suffering, to the piercing ache of a loneliness that the cat had spent her life rescuing you from, one dead mouse at a time. You cry in a way you never have before, shuddering sobs rolling through you like waves, so huge and fast they nearly choke you.

The loss of her, the terrible knowledge that the little creature who saved you over and over again is gone now, forever beyond your immortal reach, is overwhelming. So overwhelming, so suffocating, that you almost miss the impatient swat of a paw against your knee.

[girldraki]

Its not just Tumblr fiction, all reddit stories are like that too

FAIR. especially given that the style of the goddamn writingprompts blog and r/writingprompts are identical to the point we’re pretty sure there’s significant crosspollination (and that for a period of time we honestly thought the one was a crosspost bot for the other lol) . sadly both tumblr and reddit are full of guys with the specific quantity of smugness needed to really get into that idea 😔

[valena-nedela]

r/WritingPrompts: A AskReddit post which reads: "Superheroes/Supervillains, what's the most awkward situation you found yourselves in during your career?"

I conjured a spirit to conceal my identity on this post, and it was a mischievous thing, so I have no idea what name this is appearing under. Apologies to whoever’s identity I’ve stolen for the moment, I suppose.

I’ve never kept a “costume” name, as I’ve just never really been one for that sort of thing. And I’m certainly not giving out my real name, no matter how much of a “nobody” I may be outside of the heroes-and-villains business. Names carry too much power. By way of introduction, I’ll use the title I carry among the spirit world and those who traffic with it: The Witch of the Book.

If you know that name, you are likely wary, but I assure you there are no bindings or charms concealed within these words.

If you operate within the circles I do, you are likely at least somewhat aware that the majority of the power at my disposal comes from my namesake book. However, I’m not without power of my own. It’s a minor gift, nothing that would have me fighting monsters on its own, but I have slight mental manipulation abilities. I come off as trustworthy, my requests sound reasonable, and people are generally willing to listen and take my side. It’s no mind control — it takes quite a lot of conversation and effort on my part to even plant a suggestion in someone — but it’s helped me on more than a few occasions.

One thing it has never helped with is getting dates.

You would think, right? I like to believe I present as a mysterious, powerful, and wise entity. Between that and natural charms I should have it easy. But no. Apparently being WLW and involved in all manner of mystical nonsense puts me in an extreme niche. It doesn’t help that I’m rather prone to falling for people too easily…

But you wanted specific incidents. I have two.

First, I once took an apprentice in the mystical arts. I don’t think I would, anymore, but I was less experienced at the time. And I was… a bit charmed by her. She was clever, enthusiastic, funny, relentlessly positive, and had a habit to turn any interaction between us into a flirt. We were dancing around the topic of dating — our relationship wasn’t as imbalanced as a student-teacher one, but it still felt awkward — when one of my own familiars had to break it to me that while I may have found the girl charming, she was quite literally enchanted by me. In one go, I discovered my charm was amplified against those who could be attracted to me, and my apprentice learned she was abnormally strongly influenced by enchantment.

I had to break off the relationship for ethical reasons, and end her apprenticeship because the arts were too risky for her.

The second incident might be worse, honestly, and also probably more familiar to the rest of the vigilante community. Having gone years without any further prospects, I was desperate enough to turn to a dating app. Surprisingly, I got a hit almost immediately, and it didn’t take long for us to hit it off on the app and set up a date. And of course, it turned out to be one of my fiercest rivals. We’d both used enough magical obfuscation over our encounters to not know it until we sat down, but I knew that voice in an instant, and I could tell from the look on her face that she knew mine. Of course, I was without my book and she was without her enchanted sword, so it wasn’t like things would turn to blows, but I still expected her to cut things short. Stars know I should have.

But no! She was perfect. Polite, funny, charming, seeming genuinely interested — and I knew from our battles that my charms didn’t affect her. And I had always found her beautiful, despite constantly being at odds. And now, knowing she’s also interested in women… it makes me want to scream. I swear she was only doing it to act superior or mess with me.

But now… I’m honestly considering seeing if we can work things out between us, no matter how stupid or desperate that makes me.

[hollerite]

Because they all just rip from the front page of Reddit r/writingprompts, which consists of nothing but bots who are all making posts copying the other posts on the front page, and upvoting eachothers posts

why are all prompts from those shitty writing prompt blogs always the same. its always some shit like “every person is born with the taco bell logo tattooed on their forehead. the logo changes colors like the tumblr logo during pride month when the person who is going to t-bone you in a 4 way intersection is nearby. one day your taco bell logo starts flipping its shit when you wake up next to the love of your life. you feel betrayed.”