Prompt #12

Prompt #23

(Character A) is a witch, and (Character B) promised their firstborn to them. (Character A) was joking, but (Character B), who didn’t really want kids anyways, took it completely seriously. They soon became actual friends, but then (Character B) accidentally has a kid.

Now, they have to deal with the child, and the custody issues, as (Character B) decided that they now want to be in their kid’s life.

Prompt #19

(Character A) is the heir to the throne. Their parents hire a bodyguard after rumours of an assasination (false ones), who ends up to be (Character B).

Now, (Character B) was a mercenary before, so they gained a lot of enemies, and are very accident-prone. Really, (Character A) is more suited to be THEIR bodyguard.

In the end, (Character A) protects (Character B), and they bond over their situation.

Prompt #25

(Character A) and (Character B) are best friends, so of course, when (Character A) goes on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, they use a lifeline to call their best friend. They don’t need it, but they just wanted to talk to them before they won.

So, of course, (Character B) accidentally confesses their long-time crush on (Character A) on live television.

... Shit.

it hurts

“It hurts,” says the ice to the sun, “It hurts me to be with you.”

“But it hurts me too,” says the sun. “Have you ever thought about how your dripping water sizzles on my skin?”

The ice was confused. “Your pain comes from my destruction, yet you invalidate my pain from my own destruction with it?”

“But my pain is important too!” The sun screams their pain louder than the ice ever could.

“Okay,” says the ice, and caters to the sun’s sizzling blisters, not acknowledging their own mutilation.

The blisters do look rather serious, of course.

And so the ice suffers in silence.

He doesn’t know what to make of it.

It’s ugly and it’s not, it’s beautiful and it’s not, it’s simultaneously everything he could have wanted and everything he dreaded.

She was leaving him.

She was leaving him, and wasn’t that fantastic? Wasn’t that horrible? Wasn’t that everything he could think of, alone but together with himself and a bottle that he could’ve sworn had fused to the callouses on his fingertips, had been superglued there and never ever left.

She was leaving him.

He still had his wedding ring, stuck to his finger in a different way than when you try on a ring and have to take it off with soap and water and time. It was stuck by the adhesive of his own mind. Trapped. He couldn’t take it off, couldn’t bare to pry it away.

She had taken hers off long ago, so why was his still stuck, like the bottle to his callouses and to his lips and permanent streams of saltwater that clung to his cheeks for days and days and days? Why?

All of his breaths were shudders and all of his thoughts were endless strings that never had a conclusion, an essay with an infinite word-count. He could still see the amber spilt on the floor through watery eyes, and still found it ironic that he was back to crying over spilt milk and spilt Jack Daniels and spilt tears and he was crying over everything and nothing and whatever was in between, so why did it matter anyways?

He clenched the bottle even tighter in his hand, and he wasn’t sure how much of it was alcohol and how much of it was his own tears at this point, and he knew he had to stop.

He had always known he needed to stop. He knew he needed to stop the first time he took a secret sip from beer in the fridge and the first time he had a serious hangover and the first time and the first time he met her and the first time she left him and the first time she came back and the first time she left a second time.

So many firsts. To him, the milestones didn’t matter a single bit. To him, all that mattered was that he didn’t have to care about what really did matter. And he was incredibly proficient at that in particular.

So he was good at knowing when to quit, but he was never quite as good at quitting. He was still stuck on that one time she smiled at him and she had looked so genuine, so real, and how she had looked just as real and tired when she said that she wanted a divorce and that she had had another.

She had another, didn’t she? Of course she did, she was always good at back-up plans and back-up-back-up plans. He knew it when she had a beer spilt on her shirt that neither of them liked (like the Jack Daniels on the floor and the milk knocked over to the ground and his heart to hell fires). He knew it when she came home with her lipstick smeared and with her eyes wild, he knew it when she stopped looking him in the eye and started looking at the wall behind him.

(The last time she looked him in the eye she told him straight to his face that she had another.)

(The last time he looked her in the eye he didn’t say a word.)

He stood up and slipped on the whiskey and prayed to whoever was out there that he wouldn’t be able to get up. It didn’t work.

It never worked, did it? Whoever was out there doesn’t care much for people like him anyway, and he could hear in the back of his head the whisper screams of ‘alcoholic’ and ‘acute mania’ his own screams weren’t loud enough. The shards of the bottles scattering everywhere when he smashed them to drown them out hid under his couch and beneath the coffee table to escape him and he understood why, because he was running from himself too, like her.

He didn’t know if there was a God anywhere.

Why do people want flat stomachs so super badly????

Like, I don’t hate people with flat stomachs at all, it’s not a bad thing, but like

Why only accept completely flat, hard stomachs when you can also have

Squish

the oasis vs the ocean

it’s freezing in the quiet empty.

cold is comforting in its honesty;

the heat may envelope me but it only burns my skin,

its lies are all-encompassing.

yet the cold is here now,

and it is blunt, but it never hugs - it loves without a single touch.

the heat tries to love,

but it sears and scratches my bones, marking and tearing at my skin.

it smears its ash over my broken body, tears turning to steam and my gasping sobs turning into a cacophony of silence.

‘would you rather die of heat or cold?’

someone once said to me that the world will either end in fire or ice.

i know what i would prefer.

i know what i would rather feel.

numbness, hot, blazing frostbite causing slow inane hallucinations, a sick parody of the little match girl.

scathing, writhing flames licking the walls and leaning in, reeking of its victims and leering at its future prey.

i know myself well.

i hate that sometimes.

did you know that cold is not a feasible term?

cold is not its own self.

cold is simply the absence of heat.

a room filled to the brim with snow is not full,

not in the way a room full of fire is.

a room full of fire is suffocation in its most simple form,

smoke rising and smothering.

the snow is breathable, almost nonexistent,

and some animals even hide in the snow for protection in the winter.

did you know that?

the heat is a hitch in your breath, it’s a splatter of ink from a shaking hand.

it is stifling and deadly, not an embrace but a chokehold.

the heat will kill fierce, passionate, ares in his most pure form.

the cold is a ghost of a touch, a never ending inhale, a whisp of an idea.

it is a weathered blanket, holed and tattered and a false shelter in the storm.

the cold will kill gentle, quiet.

there is no glory, no fight in dying of cold.

resignation is cold, so it makes sense that cold will kill with resignation.

too little or too much?

i have always been safe in my choices.

too much will never make me empty,

too much will never leave me in the dark, blind and unknowing,

too much will never let me stay alone in blue air and white breaths and blurry vision from the saltwater streaming down my crimson cheeks and lips like shattered glass,

too much will never crack me with nothing, a void in my eyes and a thousand yard stare,

too much will never keep me deathly still in anticipation until everything seeps out of me in a realization that I only anticipate anticipation.

but even so…

too little will never send a fire through my nerves and cauterize my heart,

too little will never shatter me in a haze of red and dusty charcoal,

too little will never trace delicate fingers of ember across me and scar me in the ashes,

too little will never kill me with a glance, break me with uncertainty.

drowning is inevitable either way.

i will drown in either the oasis or the ocean,

nothing or all.

too little will never satisfy me,

but too much will only hurt me.

adventure has never been my friend,

and courage is swapped for anxiety.

my mind is not my brain,

and its thoughts aren’t my choices,

so i take the safe road,

as i always do.

…..

….

…

..

.

..

…

….

…..

the oasis is an empty salvation.

the ocean is an empty home.

water is simply an empty.

in the end, i will die, and it will be silent.

it is on nights like these that i think i will live in the nothing until nothing is my everything.

until i know the nothing as my home.

...

i will never know fulfillment the way i know the empty.

Prompt #26

(Character A) meets (Character B) at the Area 51 raid. (Character B) freaks out because they work there (albeit not voluntarily, it was a family thing to work for the government), and pretends they’re an alien because they’re a pathological liar.

Fortunately(?), (Character A) is stupid and believes them, so now (Character B) has to keep up with the charade after (Character A) takes them home to rescue them from the facility.

words suck

What are words?

What could she say?

Everything she wanted to say was stuck in her throat, all the ‘I care about you’s and the ‘I’m not mad at you, I just care about you so much that I can’t bear it when you don’t care about yourself’ and all the ‘I don’t know’s.

Because really, she didn’t know.

She didn’t know a lot of things.

She didn’t know what to say to the self-deprecating comments on the side or the casual mentions of not eating as much and being to unhealthy or the anything.

Did she talk about it seriously? Did she sit him down and tell him that he was perfectly fine just the way he is? No. That would make him uncomfortable.

Did she just dismiss or negate the self-deprecating comments and hope he took it seriously? Maybe, but there’s a chance it won’t work.

What are words?

Her parents had always told her that she took things too seriously. In truth, she just didn’t see the point in things not taken or said literally. What was the point in saying something if it isn’t true and you can’t help anyone by saying it?

Sometimes, she wished everyone else took things as seriously as she did. If they did, she wouldn’t have to worry about miscommunication and honesty.

If they did, maybe they’d listen to her.

She had so much to say, but finding a strategy to say it and coming across in the right way so they would pay attention was stressful.

She really wished she could find a way to talk to him in the right way.

What are words?

Taken literally, words are a form of communication, verbal and nonverbal. Words come in many languages and interpretations, so there’s a million ways to say anything that comes to mind.

Words are also a way to shape and share thoughts, going above and beyond the basic need for survival most animals prioritize.

But, as humans are the apex predators, they have a lot of freedom to just think.

And think they do.

What is the meaning of everything? Is there a purpose to life? Is there a reason we’re here? Should we even be here?

Should I even be here?

Why?

And she doesn’t have an answer. She doesn’t know what to say. She never does.

She’s been given a thousand answers to her million questions, and although that’s a lot of answers, it’s not enough in the context.

Will she ever know enough?

Will she ever have enough?

…

Will she ever be enough?

And she doesn’t know.

So she keeps asking questions and hoping for a single answer per every hundred or thousand, and hopes she’ll be enough to help him.

Hopes she’ll be enough to help anybody.

Maybe everyone else sees that she helps one person, and that she must be good at it, and they don’t see the dozen before that she couldn’t help.

Is it enough?

...

Words suck.

Prompt #9

(Character A) and (Character B) are supposed to be rivals.

The story itself isn’t angsty at all.