I Love The Story!!!!! Thank You So Much, It’s Beautiful. I Think You’re The First Person To Actually

Prompt #6

(Character A) is an astrologist. (Character B) is an astronomer. They are in a happy, healthy relationship.

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

Prompt #0.5

(Character A), a celebrity, is a big fan of (Character B), a Tumblr stan account dedicated to (Character A).

Because they suck at communication, (Character A) decides to comission fanfiction of themselves through (Character B) to talk to them.

An updated version - might go through more changes. :)

burn

It wasn’t about him. It was never about him.

In fact, she never meant for him to have any involvment in the matter, never meant for him to ever know about it. He was never meant to know anything.

It had started long before she ever knew him.

It started when her father had brought out a lighter one evening. He opened his pack of cigarettes and took a long drag, his shoulders relaxing. He sunk into the chair. He no longer cared about hiding his addiction from his daughter, playing with a doll idly on the carpeted floor, six years old and quiet as a mouse.

She was known for being a rather emotionless child. Not once had she laughed or grinned or cried. Her mother fretted about her, but her father didn’t mind. No tantrums was fine with him. The lack of feelings wasn’t a problem with him. She watched with glazed eyes as flaky ashes fell to the carpet. She stared at them as they floated gently to the floor, choking and coughing a bit from the fumes.

She stared even longer at the lighter. How could a fire be hiding in the tiny object?

Late into the night, she snuck into the living room where the lighter was still lying next to the ashtray, and stole it. The next morning, she hid it in her backpack and ran off into the woods to play.

It was yellow and shiny and had a grey top that flipped open. She immediately was fascinated, entranced. Her eyes lit up for the first time. It was so small, but had such power! When she mimicked her father’s motions, it let out a fizzling spark once, twice, thrice, and then burst into a tiny flame.

She knew what she was doing tomorrow. Her eyes burned with the fire she now possessed.

Her mother found the neighbor’s cat later that month, half-decomposed and covered in soot, and she had screamed. It was the kind of scream from a horror movie that got half-hearted reviews, one that never really sent shivers down your spine. It never even got under her skin. She didn’t care that she had been found out. The cat was annoying anyways. Her flames were bright, unstoppable, unable to be extinguished, and she would feed the fire until everything came down around her.

Years later, in her twenties, she met him. Her lover. He was sunny and bright and passionate and emotional and everything she wasn’t. He was her fire. She wanted him, in a way that she hadn’t wanted since she’d laid her eyes on that lighter over a decade ago.

And eventually, she got him. It seemed like she had attached herself to him, in a strange way. She wanted him to be hers, and only hers, but shied away from affection and emotion. She didn’t know how to respond to his hugs, how to smile for him. She didn’t know how to be genuine.

And that meant that she had to avoid him, and that meant that she left the house often, coat over her shoulders and lighter in her pocket.

She didn’t know what she wanted more, him or her fire. And that scared her.

She hadn’t known what it was like to be scared before.

She flicked the lighter, and threw it down on the large pile of dry grass and twigs at her feet. The willow tree sheltered the newborn flame, and it slowly climbed higher and higher. As it began to lick the tree top, she backed away to admire the light in the drizzling rain. Her light.

Her eyes gleamed.

Her fire burned.

Her lover still smiled for her when she came home. He smiled through watery eyes, and she wasn’t sure if it was from her late return or from the water drops tapping out a rhythm on the sidewalk or from the ash that clung to her shoulders, even through the rain. She didn’t know how to understand what he felt on their best days together.

He hugged her close and securely whenever she came home, and she responded the same. Her eyes were as dry as the Sahara, saved from the rain by her umbrella, glazed over with disinterest. Waiting for the next opportunity to buy another lighter. To buy more gasoline. To build a stack of sticks and grass. To relish in the newfound brightness.

To burn.

(She never thought about how he had had an umbrella of his own when she came out to greet him, and how his clothes were dry.)

She would set the world on fire just to watch it go ablaze, and she would smile the same smile she always had before. An answering smile. An answer to the questions, to the counselors at school and the dead cat her mother found covered in charcoal and gasoline, to the classmates who were afraid of her in kindergarten, to the prescriptions in her cabinet, ever fluorescent.

To her lover, whose eyes were still full of water on the sunniest day of the year. She still ignored the drip-dropping of water on her neck whenever they hugged.

(It wasn’t raining.)

(She didn’t know how to explain it, so she avoided it.)

(Sometimes, she thinks that he cries because he doesn’t know what to do anymore.)

He cried when she left and cried when she came home, and he cried when he was alone and cried when she was with him. He cried when she smelled like a campfire and when she had ashes sprinkled in her hair, and he cried when their budgeting started to include lighters and gasoline.

He cried every tear that she never could.

Sometimes she wished that she could cry for him instead. He must have been so dehydrated.

(For his birthday, she bought him a nice water bottle. “So you can stay hydrated. You cry an awful lot,” she said. He grinned and hugged her, then pulled away quickly.

“Thank you.” His lips were wobbly and saltwater streamed down his cheeks. She smelled like a campfire.)

She always had grey peppering her clothes. Her smile was subdued, but her eyes were distant and wild. Like they knew something. Like they had already watched the world burn down in their head a million times, and enjoyed every second.

A psychopath.

An arsonist.

Someone who burned trees and papers for fun. Someone who bought too many lighters in too little time. (The gas station attendant had never seen so many lighters be laid out on the checkout counter.) Someone who watched her lover cry and looked away with disinterest. Someone who didn’t leave the house one day to burn.

(He was still home, crying in the corner. She didn’t notice him until the end.)

Someone who never cried when she watched her lover scream and his tears evaporate, ugly crying, with eyes of crimson and half moon bruises underneath and snot running down his face, saltwater on his tongue and dripping off his chin just to go up and evaporate in flames and smoke.

Someone who died with her lover by accident and didn’t care. Someone who watched the flames with gleaming eyes until the end.

(Her eyes were still gleaming when they burned to the ground.)

purple and yellow don’t mix

Yellow and purple make gray. They make gray lines in the sunset and live on opposite ends of the colour wheel. They don’t mix.

She thought of herself as gray at first. Gray was how she lived. In between, never first nor last. Gray was happy that way, mild and indecisive.

And when someone who was yellow came along, she found herself longing. She could be right next to her forever, beside Yellow, with her pastel colors and bright brown eyes that screamed of life and look at me, I exist and I can be happy while I do it. Gray was content. Life was perfect in the way that everything became familiar and recognizable, never bombarding with change and confusion.

And maybe that’s what made Yellow find a real Gray.

Purple and Yellow don’t mix.

Gray(?) didn’t realize how she’d always worn dark colours that came straight from the edge of ocean’s sunsets instead of light grays, and how she’d worn hats and leather jackets with dark flowers stitched elegantly on each edge, and how she’s always, always, looked at Yellow as something she could never have, as something she could only look at and never touch, never ever touch because what if she stained her hoodies and left rips in her jeans and made her Gray? Made her an in-between?

Every word seemed pointless to say when she found Yellow in bed with a true Gray. One who could never make her confused or changed.

Never again.

Purple didn’t care for pastel grays much anymore.

said softly means you are speaking, but sweetly, and heartfelt. said quietly means it is less sweet, but still not loud or inaudible. whispered means you aren’t speaking at all, and it can have a negative or positive connotation, but more negative than softly. mumbled means it’s nearly inaudible, and has a more negative connotation.

try me, connotations are everything in writing; especially when conveying emotions.

I know adverbs are Controversial, but “said softly” means something different than “whispered” and this is the hill I will die on.

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.

Prompt #15

(Character A), who is a peasant, accidentally saves (Character B), who is royalty, from an assasination attempt. However, (Character B) thinks it was purposeful, and thinks they are indebted to (Character A).

(Character A) is unaware of this, and wonders why the heir to the throne is so interested in them all of a sudden.

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 #7

(Character A) wears dark clothes. They can manipulate the shadows. They’re quiet and intense.

(Character B) wears bright clothing. They can fly and manipulate light. They’re exuberant and bubbly.

(Character A) is a super hero. (Character B) is a super villain.