Prompt #30

Yike. Not yikes. A single yike.

Prompt #12

(Character A)’s life is set up completely by their parents for a social experiment; complete with castings for background characters and side characters.

(Character B) is a side character in (Character A)’s life. They’re supposed to be the bully, but as they find themselves falling for (Character A), they start to break their script.

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.

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.

Prompt #29

Soulmate AU where the last words your soulmate says is written on your skin.

(Character A) doesn’t have any words. (Character B), their soulmate, is immortal.

???

do i like emo aesthetic? do i like pastel aesthetic? do i like preppy stuff? am i plain?

do i like country? do i like punk? do i like pop? do i like whatever genre(s) twenty one pilots/my chemical romance/fall out boy/panic! at the disco even is?

am i intimidating? am i friendly? am i mean? am i nice?

do i word my sentences right? do i talk calmly enough when i’m in an argument? do my friends really want to be with me as much as i want to be with them? can i talk about my interests without censoring them?

should i talk about my sexuality or preferences? should i talk to my mom about my crush on a girl? should i correct my parents when they only talk about me getting a husband when i’m older? should i tell my extended family that i’m not straight?

can i be open at school? can i raise my hand more than once every five minutes? can i tell my friends about what i really think about? can i be uncloseted at school and not have my flag and explanation of bisexuality on my locker taken down and have it explained to me by the school counselor that it’s because the younger kids could see and ask their parents?

is it okay if i talk louder? is it okay if i don’t apologize all the time? is it okay if i say what i’m thinking? is it okay if i laugh loud and smile wide with my teeth and walk with a wide stride?

is it okay if i ask these questions?

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.

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.

Prompt #9

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

The story itself isn’t angsty at all.

Prompt #16

(Character A) is a rebellious teen, and when they get together with the goody-two-shoes (Character C), everyone warns (Character C) to be wary.

In the end, it’s (Character A) who gets their heart broken, and nobody knows how...

Except maybe (Character B), who’s been with (Character C) before and knows exactly what they’re like. As an empathetic person, they become friends with (Character A) to try and mend their heart, and fall in love a bit in the process.

As (Character A) has just gotten out of a bad relationship, (Character B) doesn’t want to rush anything, but little do they know that (Character A) is just as enamoured.

Cue the ‘I don’t want them to be a rebound’ and ‘I’m not gonna rush anything’ and let the story begin.