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My friend saw a flower when she was coming home for the weekend, but she was too late to witness it bloom, only to witness as it was losing it’s beauty and dying. I have no literary skills so someone write a poem for me
”Wait.” The faintest sound darting out from beneath the door. So so quiet, even though there is nothing else to make noise. Even though there is nothing else to hear it.
“Wait, please.” You turn, key already half in your hands pocket, caught stiff from the impossibility of it. It’s barely louder than a murmur. If your hearing hadn’t twitched just the slightest, if you hadn’t stopped just to double check, you’d be gone. The universe would be shut, dust sheets covering the planets and all the windows and stars locked. Lights off.
“Please?” It’s so unsure. So fragile. The silence threatens to break the noise instead of the other way round. Are they unwilling or unable to raise their volume, to risk being heard, to take up space, to actually stand up and decide they want to exist? What horrors do they think being known will bring?
“Please. I don’t want to be left behind.”
You open the door, and the universe flickers on.
You are Death. The last living thing has died. You've put the chairs on the tables, turned out the lights, and locked the universe behind you. Something whispers from behind the door.
“…why?”
“I’m telling you, they make the best bread I’ve ever had in my fucking life.”
“Can I help?”
“So you’re a villain, but you only want to take over this small village?” “Yep.” “You don’t have any plans to take over anywhere else?” “Nope.”
“I don’t know gang…”
“C’mon, you can’t leave us hanging!”
“Yeah, you’ll love camping!”
“I love plumbing. And a mattress.”
“The cabin overlooking the clearing has showers and everything, and plus, if it gets really bad we can just hole up in there for a while. It’s got three floors!”
“Really? That’s quite a lot for a camping cabin.”
“Yeah! The basement, the main floor and the attic!”
“…Excuse me?”
“What?”
“You booked a cabin in the middle of the woods with a basement and an attic?”
“Technically we can’t go into the basement, it’s like super locked.”
“Which means?”
“In the pictures there are three locked chains on the door, see?”
“THERE’S ALSO A FUCKING HAND REACHING THROUGH THE GAP UNDERNEATH?!”
“No, I’m pretty sure that’s just a trick of the light. Or the decor. It’s really gothic.”
“Gothic?! Yeah no pass your phone, I want to- gargoyles. Hunting trophies. Why not. Did you even- IS THAT A CLOWN STATUE?”
“Relax, it does a side gig as a venue for haunted houses. That’s probably where the hand came from: Halloween decorations.”
“…And nothing about this is giving you a red flag?”
“Ok, seriously, relax, you are so dramatic, it’s probably wine not an actual bloodstain-“
“I didn’t see a bloodstain?!”
“Oh see it’s right there next to the fireplace with the axes above the mantle.”
“Just no.”
“Hey folks, I did check the weather and it will be heavy storms so we’ll just have to tough it- what’s up with Red?”
“They are weirded out by the log cabin.”
“CLOWN STATUE. BLOODSTAIN. LOCKED BASEMENT. What does the attic also have to be a meat locker for you to give this idea any thought?”
“It says the owners only kept the meat cleavers after they refurbished it.”
“Ooo, that’s why it’s so spacious, old farmhouse.”
“Right? It’s so rustic!”
“We’re going to die.”
“Look Red, we don’t want to go on this without you. It’s only last freedom before uni, right?”
“If you say we’re out, we’re out.”
“I’m sorry, but it really gives me a bad feeling.”
“No that’s perfectly ok. You’re not happy, none of us are happy.”
“Tell me the deposit wasn’t non-refundable.”
“It’s fine, we got it for dirt cheap, this flyer showed up through the door and the number we called practically gave it to us for free.”
“It’s going to be tricky finding somewhere that cheap again. And when we booked it in person, the lady was so nice, she even gave us this cool themed skull key for the door!”
“Oh! I got an ad for an old castle that needs house-sitting! They’ll even pay us to be there and it looks really nice, and it needs a minimum of five people and we fit perfectly.”
“Let’s see?”
“I love those paintings in the hall, so lifelike. Skilled artists, you guys.”
“None of you are allowed to make decisions anymore. I pick where we go next.”
getting horror movie vibes from the trip your friends were planning, you decided to simply stay home.
You’re half convinced it’s a hallucination, the monster with too many eyes and blue fur standing over you. It doesn’t stop shaking your arm though, insisting you run, telling you to get up and get out. Warning you of danger.
You stumble out of bed, pyjamas crumpled and eyes still heavy with sleep before hacking coughs bring you to the ground. Your lungs burn as you try to gasp in air on your hands and knees, one hand tangling in the nearest thing keeping you stable. When your eyes fill with water and the coughing subsided, the monster is staring at you. Its claws are extended but at a distance, close enough to hold onto, far enough away to not frighten you. It’s scared.
The hand curled in its soft fur is dark with ash. The weight in your throat is smoke. Your nose tingles. Light flickers from behind the entrance of your bedroom door. Monster has noticed it too.
You get out safely that night. Your parents too, and your siblings. The firefighters told you how lucky you were, waking up in time to get everyone to safety. They said other things too, but you weren’t paying attention. You watched the house go up in flames, and a monster that can’t leave its home under the bed wave from what used to be your bedroom window.
Now in your mid teens, you forgot all about the monster under your bed. One night though, it wakes you up saying “You’re not safe. You need to get out of here”
Content warning for death, blood and description of injuries
Another slice to my throat. More stains running down my armour, rivers feeding the nutrients I no longer need into the ground. You stand frozen, gaze blank. You always do when we die. Blue already lies, eyes vacant and staring, neck angled horribly wrong. I can’t see Yellow’s face. Their back took the worst of their injuries, as they tripped and did not get back up.
My knees crumble, throat gasping out one last time. I didn’t see Green go down, I heard them like I can hear myself. Their cry cut off, because their brain was targeted. Not their throat. My brain is still stuck trying to make broken vocal cords work.
I blink for what should be the last time.
It won’t be.
“Everyone understand?” Purple looks around at us, all jostling in the belly of the plane, trying to break the tension before our last mission. “We only get one shot at this. We’re counting on you.” They look directly at you as they say that, before turning to where the doors will open.
I don’t know why we don’t get one shot. I don’t know why the gods keep rewinding the clock. You’re the only one that initiates change, so you have to know. I think you’re the only other one who does. The fifth try, you took out a guard I hadn’t spotted. They killed me last time. The seventeenth, you found another way in, after the previous one kept leading to traps and dead ends.
I don’t know why I’m granted so many second chances, and I know I’m alone in remembering what came before. I tried to mention it to Green once. It distracted them, got them killed earlier. I stopped talking after that try. I didn’t want to mess anything else up.
We’re getting close, we have to be. I don’t know what try we’re on, but you get better, stronger every time. Sometimes there’s a stupid mistake from one of us, or a weirdly placed guard, but generally, we’re improving.
Out the airplane, land on the roof, take the fire escape to the fourth floor even though it goes down to the third because there’s too many guards on the third, sneak through the vents, avoid the alarms, climb into the lift shaft and into one of the lifts, ride it down to the basement.
Yes, I can feel it. The death by gravity as I was pushed down the empty shaft. Bones crunching, not able to move my legs. Internal bleeding got me that time. A shot through the window of a corridor, so quick I didn’t have time to be surprised. The phantom pains following me into the next try, aches where my body expects to still find snaps.
This try, we get all the way down the final hall to the vault before the tripwire catches you out. We can still make it, we’ve made it past this point before. Footsteps rumble like thunder above as we dash towards the vault door, weapons and equipment flickering through your hands as you search for something we can use. The vault door creeks as it begins to swing slowly, a ticking clock for our team. Blue makes it in, sliding their backpack off immediately to search for the lock picks they will now need. Yellow whoops as they make it in, keeping an eye on Blue while taunting the guards and hurrying us up. The vault door gets closer to shut. Green makes it in, preparing to take up cover fire through a narrowing field of vision. You’re right behind, squeezing through the shrinking gap. The vault clicks as it closes, Purple slamming into it unable to stop their momentum, and me skidding to a halt beside them.
There’s a small glass window through the vault door, and you walk right up to it, staring at us while you try to slam anything into the door. Looking for a trigger to open the metal lock. Running to get Blue or the others to help, but they shake their heads, already moving on. You return to the window, and I smile back. It’s ok. You might be able to make it this time. This could be the one. You could do it.
The door we came through shatters open as guards pour in. We ready our weapons for a fight, turning away from you, who has gone so still. You never stop moving, not unless one of us is dead, but you can’t do that now. You can make it, you can complete our mission and save the world. We signed onto that, weeks of training and trusting each other before we committed to our shot. Helping people, or die trying.
The stench of blood taints the air as Purple and I engage, holding back the guards to give you as much time as we can. Every second gives you more of a chance to make it. Please, you have to make it. You can do this. Dodging a knife and twisting away from the action, I see you, still frozen on the other side of the glass. A jolt in my back, my breath catching and your blank express do the rest.
I blink.
“Everyone understand?” Purple looks around at us, jostling each other. I smile at you, because you are already moving, already checking weapons and ammunition and equipment again. You could have made it that time.
It’s happened quite a bit. Your chance for freedom, for success, very clearly in reach. But then Yellow will get taken out as a warning that we’ve been spotted. Green succumbs to previous injuries. Blue can’t break the locks in time. Purple gets caught in a triggered trap. I stay behind to buy more time. It resets every time. And although it hurts, and the hollow pain in my stomach has me checking the wound really did disappear like they do everytime, I will smile at you. Because you are going to get us through this. You’re going to make sure one of these times, everybody lives. Every death, every injury, is nothing compared to losing any of us.
It may be selfish, and painful, and at times threatens hellish hopelessness, but whenever it gets too much, whenever the danger gets too close, I know you will save us. You will stay with us, and I know you will keep doing so until one try, we all make it out ok. And I would rather that ending than any other.
Player keeps reloading trying to save every ally in a mission, one of their allies remembers every attempt.
Oh. This is it?
I don’t want to be left behind. Please.
please don’t leave me too.
i dont want to be alone.
After being a superhero for decades and experiencing many awful events, you make a horrifying discovery: you don’t age and will never be able to retire
The dragon appears to be currently having a tug of war with a rogue tooth fairy over the coin it meant to leave under your pillow (the academy’s been dealing with a bit of a problem at the moment so it’s become routine to check you still have all your teeth when you get up), and eventually gives up on the coin.
The tooth fairy, cloaked in cracked tooth enamel, makes the brief mistake of blowing a raspberry at your new familiar, believing to have won the fight. As it turns out, tooth fairy makes for a good morning snack, as your dragon crunches on its wings. It then tries to eat the previously abandoned coin. Ok.
The Academy is very grateful for your familiar’s help with the tooth fairy problem, and looking after it keeps you on your toes. Life goes on. Twig (named for the one food the brat refuses to eat no matter how much you insist it’s good for her fire breathing-) grows big enough to rival the average rocket of energy that is a Labrador. You’d almost thought the conversation with the Goddess was a dud.
You were telling Twig off for trying to eat your scarf, again, because you really didn’t think you’d be spending the same amount of money on winter clothes as an academy textbook, but you know, favourite chew toys and all, when in a huff, Twig takes a bite of the sludge coating the pavement, never breaking eye contact with you.
You stare as your dragon eats. It’s not snow. It’s too late in the winter for snow. The footprints in beautiful pristine perfection were replaced by grey and brown mush melting into gutters two weeks back. You don’t let her eat things found on the side of the pavement (how horrible of you, you know), so she’s doing this to be difficult. She clearly never tried sludge before, because despite trying to be difficult, her face twists in disgust, and she opens her mouth again to let the sludge fall out. It only looks marginally less appealing than before.
Twig sneezes then, and instead of her usual purple fire, violet ice comes snorting out, encasing the partially chewed sludge. Oh good. That won’t complicate things. A dragon that can breathe whatever it’s recently eaten, and that dragon is Twig, whose first instinct in every situation is to see if she can eat something. Without fail.
In the end, you really wish the Goddess of Magic could have just spouted one of those ‘the power was inside you all along’ speeches, because Goddess knows raising a multitalented dragon and preventing it from eating everything in sight was throwing you in the deep end on that front. Turns out, when you’re constantly practicing spells that track down where your dragon has wandered off to in the middle of a farmer’s market, or realising you really need that fire resistant spell after you snuck wood into Twig’s diet cause you thought she wouldn’t be able to taste it but you clearly thought wrong- well practice makes perfect, and you get a LOT of practice.
But even becoming one of the most powerful mages won’t get Twig to leave your scarf aLONE GODDAMN IT TWIG-
You are the weakest mage of your academy, so weak that you even fail to summon a familiar. After another dreamed discussion with the goddess of magic, you’re surprised to find a tiny dragon curled up on your chest in the morning.
a king has received the standard prophecy that his youngest daughter will be the one to kill him but instead of reacting as "get this baby out of my sight and abandon it somewhere in the woods for it to die" he accepts his fate and dinner time is made very awkward.
Adoptive siblings prompts please :)
Write about the first moment the siblings hear about each other.
Write about the first time they meet.
Having siblings from different cultural backgrounds means learning a lot and celebrating the differences.
An older adoptive sibling's protectiveness over their younger sibling gets put to the test.
Having both experienced trauma and loss before, the siblings begin to heal together.
One sibling finds out about the other's adoption, having never been told by their parents.
Getting an adoptive sibling doesn't mean just sharing their parents, but also their grandparents.
People never believe them when they say that they are siblings.
For some reason, they never tell people that they are siblings and it leads to confusion regarding their shared parents and home.
More: Family Prompts Masterpost
Hope you like them!
- Jana
Write 5 sentences for your WIP right now. (x)
Imagine a place where you would like to be and write about what you would do there. (x)
What are your OCs pet peeves? (x)
Write a 10 sentence long short story about the object next to you. (x)
Write a summary for a book you would love to read. (x)
Write down 10 words that describe your MC. (x)
Write a micro story about an unusual love. (x)
Explain your MCs motivation in 3 sentences. (x)
Write a poem about an empty house. (x)
Write a 5 sentence long short story from three different perspectives. (x)
What nicknames does your MC have and who gave them to them? (x)
Write a new piece of lore for your WIP. (x)
Write a micro story about someone saying "thank you". (x)
Write about one your OC's tattoos or someone getting one done. (x)
What do you admire about your MC? (x)
Write the dialogue for a scene that's been on your mind. (x)
Write a road trip scene. (x)
Write about your MCs favourite outfit. (x)
Write about something that you can see from your window. (x)
Write about a normal day in your MC's life. (x)
Write 100 words today. It doesn't matter about what. (x)
Write a funny scene. (x)
Write down everything on your mind for five minutes. (x)
Write about your OC's first meeting. (x)
Write a scene in a grocery store. (x)
Write a micro story about an artist and their muse. (x)
Write an end scene, without the beginning. (x)
Write 10 sentences for your WIP right now. (x)
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"….Okay, are any of the dishes not poisoned?! Is there anyone at this feast who did not poison anything?!"
Wish
It truly was a wish come true. But you should always be careful what you wish for.
"Do you have any last wishes?" "Now you truly sound like a villain, after telling me their big plan to take over the world."
"If you had three wishes - anything possible - what would you wish for?"
"You have to make a wish!"
"I wish you would have talked to me."
Last wishes should almost always be granted.
"I wish for you to be quiet. For one second."
"Just wishful thinking, I'd say."
"Your wish is my command."
"I wish we could just go back to how things were."
"My first wish would always be to get infinite wishes. Duh."
"Don't tell me about your wish or it won't come true!"
"It's my last wish." "It's just a scratch. You're not dying, stop being dramatic."
How to make a wish:
throw a coin in a fountain
watch out for shooting stars
blow out birthday candles
wait for November 11th at 11:11
blow away an eyelash
For the 1 hour, 1 word prompts game: Don’t
Thanks! I love your prompts work btw - they’ve helped me so much in getting started with writing. Thank you so much for sharing them with us all ♥️♥️
So happy you enjoy them and that they inspire you! 🥰
"Don't say that."
"Don't even think about it."
"Don't play with me."
"Don't listen to them."
"Don't worry about it."
"Don't do this alone."
"Don't act like you don't know."
"Don't you listen to anything I tell you?"
"Don't stop doing what you love."
"Don't joke about this."
"Don't you love me?"
"Don't fall for it."
"Don't ever stop smiling like this."
"Don't laugh at me."
"Don't... please!"
"Don't lie to me."
"Don't even bother."
"Don't you hear me?"
"Don't... just don't."
"Don't ever change."
"Don't you see that we love you?"
endearments
Liebling (beloved/favourite)
Baby
Habibi حبيبي (my love)
Schatz (treasure)
Dear
Mon amour (my love)
Sunshine
Cariño (darling)
Aşkım (my loved one)
Babe
Kleines (little one)
Sweetheart
Ya hayati يا حياتي (my life)
Canım (my love)
Pet
Schatje (treasure)
Hayatım (my life)
Sweet cheeks
My love
Iubi (Sweet heart/darling)
Corazón (heart)
Prince/Princess
Mi amor (my love)
Darling
Tesoro (treasure)
Iubirea mea (my love)
Maus (mouse)
Honey
Mon cœur (my heart)
Draga mea (f) / Dragul meu (m) (my darling)
Everything he said sounded like an endearment.
marmaidophobic
Do you mean being anti-mermaids? I found the term:
Mermaids were propagating rapidly and it became a real problem for the local fishermen.
There were some hurtful stereotypes regarding mermaids and they would really like you to come to them, so they can tell you more about it.
Media was really lying to you, when they sold you stories about beautiful humanoid creatures with amazing hair.
Their impossibly sharp teeth weren't even the most horrifying thing about them.
Catching a mermaid in a net was a really bad omen.
There was nothing scarier than being trapped on a boat surrounded by hungry sirens.
As a dragon, you are used to humans entering to obtain your treasure or your head. "I need help with my magic school homework" is a new one though.
“How the hell did you block that with a shield?!” They asked, somehow confused at the concept of what a shield is supposed to do.
Several things to consider:
•How would they be ranked? Would it be based on a specific set of morals or based on the parent-child relationship? If two dads raise kids to the same standard, but one is homophobic and the other isn’t, and they teach that to their kids, who is the better dad? What decides the morals?
•There would most probably be a massive drop in domestic abuse/neglect. Dads would want to show off to other dads how good of a dad they were, and if it’s a lower ranking, there would be reason to suspect abuse/neglect.
•If somebody adopts a child, does the mug count that person as the child’s dad? If you didn’t realise you had a child, and you got a mug, would it still show a ranking? Do you have to be active in the child’s life? (For example: a stepdad with no biological children of his own. Would the mug count him as the dad, or the child’s biological father?)
•Would there be contests? Or what? Would there be prizes for being good dads?
•Would anybody find a way to exploit it?
All of the “#1 Dad” mugs in the world change to show the actual ranking of Dads suddenly.
I came up with a fanfic prompt overnight. I know that homosexual marriage is illegal in Japan and the age of consent for that is 18 but oh well, let's take some licenses for the sake of fanfiction
"Word that the son of Mikage Corp's CEO might be gay and going around with a no-name boy reaches the powerful man's ears. Because of this, he rushes to find a proper suitor to marry Reo off as soon as he hits 18, to straighten him up and salvage his reputation. However, he can't help himself but to confront his son about the situation and warn him to leave that boy if he knows what's good for him, although Reo insists they're just business partners.
When Reo finds out his parents are girlfriend hunting for him, he refuses to be legally tied to a stranger for life. Plus, his dad somehow knows about Nagi but has got it all wrong. This, though, gives him a genius idea. And that's how he hacks into his dad's personal account, prints his parents marriage certificate editing the names, and has Nagi sign it. His awful parents can't force any spouse into his life if he's already married nor take Nagi away from him when he's officially Reo's and only Reo's as stated by law."
I love Nagireo fics where everyone thinks they're in a relationship and it happens to be convenient so they do get in a fake relationship that's more real than my life😭
Sadly, I don't think I'm gonna be able to write it any time soon since I should be studying for university exams right now, oops.
If anyone is in the least bit inspired by this summary that assaulted my brain at 4am feel free to write your own story and if you do pls send link bc I'd love to read it 🙏
"I can't believe you have to deal with these kinds of...Monsters."
"Many call them men."
"You're here to look at the werewolves?!" the lady at the counter looks baffled out of her mind. You're already petrified, having had to develop all the courage you possessed to even walk up to her and say that. It's not like your intention to adopt a werewolf was lacking, it was just that your confidence in your own self was diminishing with the stunned look on the receptionist's face.
You nod, swallowing down the panicky overthinking in your brain, clutching your bag strap tighter for help. The lady still looks like she hasn't heard you right.
"Y-you want a werewolf pup?" she asks, face paling ever so slightly.
"It's cub, not pup," you automatically correct, before flushing a bit in embarrassment. You were a journalist, after all. Grammar was your first priority over everything else.
"Why?" she asks, almost incredulously.
"Is it wrong to want to serve society?" you raise an eyebrow at her continued surprise, feeling your sarcasm come out. You weren't eager to delve into the real reason behind your trip with a stranger.
"I-well-alright then, I suppose, I'll show you to the werewolf pup- I mean, cubs' den," the lady says with uncertainty, getting up from her seat behind the counter. Her flat heels click irregularly on the tiled floor as she keeps glancing back at you when you follow her, as if concerned that you'd magically disappear.
"Here it is," she nods, stopping in front of a two-way mirror that offered a view into a room that's big enough to house an elephant.
You really have to give credit to the orphanage management, because for all the fear that humans possess concerning werewolves, they certainly did their best to recreate the little canines' natural environment for maximum comfort. Two large dark faux trees are in two corners, and the false roots made of plaster of paris cover the floor, creating an uneven ground for the cubs to climb and run over. A large rocky outcrop sheds a corner of the room, where blankets that look like leaves and soft mattresses that look like rocks make a sleeping area for the cubs.
"We're not trying to treat them like animals," the receptionist says quickly, seeing your surprised expression, "It's just that, most of them come fresh from the forest, when their parents are killed by illegal werewolf hunters. So when we try to introduce them to human environments, they resist and struggle. It's more comfortable for them to be in this man-made natural environment."
You nod again, understanding the concept. Werewolf hunting has been made illegal decades ago, ever since humans and werewolves struck the bond that decreed that neither species would harm each other. But that doesn't stop certain people of the ancient beliefs from venturing out and hunting them down.
There's about 8 cubs around the room. 2 are cuddled up in a corner, sleeping with their arms tightly around each other. They look like perfectly normal humans, perhaps 5 years old, one in a dress and the other in a shirt and shorts.
"Those are the twins- Toby and Thalia. They're the youngest in the group," the receptionist says, following your gaze.
"Who's that adventurous one on the tree?" you ask, a mirthful smile playing on your lips as you watch one elder cub jump and grab one of the lower-hanging branches, swinging himself up with difficulty.
"That's Alex. He's always been like that. I'm afraid his story is a bit tragic. He's been kicked out of 5 foster homes already," the receptionist says, expression softening. You can empathise with her. Even if humans feared werewolves, it didn't nullify the natural sympathy and compassion that welled up in every being's heart.
"Oh no, he's wolfing out," the receptionist suddenly says in a panic, looking into the room with concern.
You look in and realise that one of the cubs is lying on the floor, curled up in foetal position, shaking and crying. The others are around him, trying to see if they can help, offering him leaves or rocks.
"I need to get the vet," the receptionist says hurriedly, rushing down the corridor, and you really have to appreciate her for being able to run at such speed in heels. You look back into the room, and see the kid struggling, the first signs of grey fur blossoming over his scalp. He's in pain, hands shuddering, face shining with a sheen of sweat, breath coming out in short, rapid gasps. Your heart wrenches as you see the poor boy turning into a werewolf so painfully, and instinctively, you walk around to the door, yank it open, and rush to the cub.
The others make way for you in surprise. Most of them are below the age of 9, but one of them is 13.
"Who are you?" she asks, standing in your way, doubt and suspicion making her voice caustic.
"I'm here to help," you raise your hands in surrender, "Your friend there needs help."
"He has all the help he needs with us," the girl says firmly, folding her arms, glaring up at you with intensity and fierceness.
You sigh in frustration, pinching the bridge of your nose. You were never great at handling kids, having always been overly blunt and awkward. Handling werewolf children seemed out of your territory. You're starting to really doubt if you could handle adopting a werewolf cub seeing your inability to even talk to one normally without getting annoyed.
"He's in pain, isn't he? What are you doing to help him?" you ask dryly, putting your hands on your knees to bend down to her level.
"Whatever it is, it's better than what you humans tend to do," the girl hisses, "All you do is kill our parents and then leave us here to grow up alone and disloved."
"Unloved," you correct instinctively, before realising your mistake and feeling like an idiot. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to correct you-" you try to say quickly, but the girl looks like she's going to burst into indignant tears.
"You're so mean!" she cries, "You humans are so rude and mean to us! What have we ever done to you?"
You wince, wishing you could take back your words and approach this situation more tactfully. But you can see the young cub still struggling behind the girl, and your heart chides your brain mentally for being an idiot.
"Look, sweetheart," you sigh, kneeling down, deciding to be honest, "I have nothing against you. I came here so I could bring one of you home and make that special little cub the most cherished child on the planet. I'm not here to harm you, or be mean. I'm terribly sorry for reprimanding you earlier, but if I don't help your friend now, he could be in serious trouble. Please?"
The girl looks uncertain, and she probably didn't understand half the words you said, but she moves aside, and you sigh in relief as you quickly get up and rush over to the shaking boy.
"Okay sweetheart, listen to me," you say, pulling the shaking cub the straight way up. He's so thin and small as he's wolfing out, he fits in your lap. You sit cross-legged on the forest floor of the room, pulling him properly into your lap and cradling him in your arms. His ragged, warm breath hits your neck as you hug him close, trying to give him comfort.
"Listen to me, can you hear me? I'm here to help. Can you hear me, darling? Just nod, can you understand me?" you whisper softly away from his ear, so that his sensitive werewolf hearing wouldn't magnify your voice a hundred times.
He nods softly, whimpering as the fur covers his arms and his bones start melding and changing.
"Alright, so, can you tell me three things that you can see?" you whisper.
He shakes his head, wincing and shivering as his shoes fall off, claws growing from his small toenails.
"Okay, okay, never mind. I've heard that your hearing is very good. Can you tell me three things that you can hear?" you ask, changing your tactic the second he stops responding.
He's hesitant, but he slowly whispers, "I can hear your breathing. I...I can hear everyone else's heartbeats. I...I can hear...the wind outside the window..."
"Okay, keep going. Don't think about what's happening to your body, just listen. Tune into everything that's going on outside," you say in the hopes of distracting him.
"There's people outside. Two people...are running here...They're still far...the tiles are loud...the human babies are wailing...everything's so loud all of a sudden..." he whines, covering his rapidly enlarging ears.
"It's alright, focus on the soft voices, sweetheart. Focus on our heartbeats. Listen to your friends' heartbeats. Isn't it calming?" you whisper, cradling him closer. He sniffles, fully covered in fur now, yet he doesn't look like a typical werewolf.
"I-It is," he hiccups, snout snuggling into your soft shirt for comfort, "They're regular. They're...nice."
"Then focus on those. They're periodic, 72 beats per minute. Time your breathing with that. One breath in every..um, 15 beats. Can you do that for me?" you say, hugging his head closer and ignoring the in-house vet and receptionist who've just rushed into the room and look as shell-shocked as if you yourself had become a werewolf.
He nods, and you count slowly for him. Gradually, he shifts from listening to his friends' heartbeats to listening to your words. His breathing evens out as the transformation completes.
You'd expected a wolf cub, at the very least. But the little creature whom you're holding in your arms is nothing more than a puppy. He's almost asleep, comfortable in your arms, tired after his first transformation.
You look up at the other children in confusion, not bothering to question the vet. "Are all of you like this in werewolf form?" you ask slowly, not wanting to startle them. The cub in your arms is a little grey puppy. Yes, he has wolfish characteristics. But if anyone had seen this little adorable fluff-ball on the streets, they wouldn't hesitate in petting his head and feeding him treats.
"Of course," Alex nods.
"I thought...werewolves were, you know, werewolves," you frown a bit.
"That's a very outdated notion," the vet speaks up, catching everyone's gaze, "Due to intermingling of werewolves with humans and other species, the original characteristics of werewolves are quite lost."
"So you're telling me that people are afraid of these cute little babies?" you raise an eyebrow, still hugging the boy in your lap close to you.
The vet and the receptionist hesitate. They're clearly not used to such an abnormal response, and you sigh in annoyance, facing the cubs instead.
"So none of you become ravenous or blood-hungry on full moons?" you ask carefully.
"Never," the eldest girl scoffs, "We don't even always turn on full moons. All the mixing of bloods has really messed up our schedules."
"Ma'am, you can give Lucius to us now-"
"No."
The receptionist falters, hands retracting as she offered to take the boy from you. "I'm sorry?"
"I said 'no'," you repeat, a firm look on your face, "I'm keeping him. I'm adopting Lucius."
"Oh, alright then. Should we begin with the-"
"I'm not finished," you interrupt, having no idea where your sudden burst of confidence has come from, although you have a lurking suspicion that it has come from your renewed determination to improve the lives of innocent werewolves.
"I'm keeping Lucius. And Toby. And Thalia. And Alex. And all the others," you say, the glare in your eyes daring her to challenge you.
She looks mind-blown, to say the least, as if her most outrageous dream had come alive before her eyes. The vet looks...concerned for your health.
You almost worry that she's going to stop you, when she suddenly gives a small smile.
"Alright, Ma'am. Shall we begin with the formalities?"
__________________________________________________________
"Mom, mom, mom," Lucius is all but yanking your short burgundy hair, desperate to get your attention.
"If the house is not burning to pieces, I don't want to be woken up," you groan, covering your face with the pillow as you try to fall back asleep.
"Mom, come on, please please pleaseeee, just wake up," Fariah whines, begging you and shaking you.
"Alright, alright, you little tricksters, I'm awake," you laugh, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as Fariah pulls you up to sit on the bed.
"Mom, come on, we need to ask you something for our school project, " Toby says quickly, and Thalia smacks him upside the head.
"You dunce! You weren't supposed to tell Mom so quickly!" she hisses at him, feeling proud for having learnt a new way to call her twin a stupid person after reading some of your more lazily written articles.
"Thalia, I'm happy about the vocabulary expansion, but we agreed that your twin is not a dunce," you say strictly, raising an eyebrow. Thalia murmurs 'sorry' to Toby, who looks annoyed that she smacked him on the head. Even though the twins are both 13, Thalia's just an inch taller, and she wastes no opportunity in bullying her twin because of it.
"So, what do you need for your school project?" you ask, pulling up your legs to sit cross-legged on the bed.
"I don't need it," Lucius says haughtily, "The twins and Fariah need it."
Lucius has been on Cloud 9 ever since he turned 14 and he got to officially announce to the world that he was older than the others.
"Alright, alright," you laugh, "What do you need?"
"Well, Mom," Fariah starts, nervously twiddling her thumbs, "Our hearing is always a hundred times better than yours. And...we can never hear your heartbeat. So, we were wondering, why can we hear everyone's heartbeat but yours?"
You know that this is not a school project. That was just an excuse for your kids to ask you a question that had probably been gnawing at them for days now. You breathe out heavily, knowing you'd have to answer the question someday.
"I was stabbed once," you admit softly, pulling Toby close to you so he could hear more clearly, "I was in the forest, hiking, and I came across this...madman. Drunk. Raving. Blind as a bat with rage over something trivial. He had a knife, and before I could even attempt to get away, he stabbed me right in the heart."
"It was painful, yes. I couldn't feel anything, and I could sense the life draining out of me. The guy was probably going to stab me again, when someone else burst into the scene. He shoved the guy away and threw him off me. He sent the guy crying for his mama. I didn't even realise what had happened - the suddenness of it was too disorienting. I was on my knees, gasping for breath, when he saved me. I must have passed out, because when I woke up, I was in a cot, wound stitched up and bandaged. He had brought me to his home and healed me. I was forever indebted to him for saving my life. I had to spend some days in his home itself because I still didn't have the strength to walk on my own from all the blood loss. In those few days, I fell for him harder than I have fallen for any other person. He was the strongest and kindest person I had ever met, and he felt the same way. He shared his struggles with me, and I shared mine. We were madly in love, I'm afraid," you give a wry chuckle, "But...his solution to my heart was only temporary. I needed proper medical treatment if I were to live. I told him that I could get to the hospital on my own, that he'd get into trouble if he came with me. But he insisted, and he took me to the hospital as my heart literally failed. He was so scared that I wouldn't make it, and I was so scared that he'd get blamed for what happened to me. Unfortunately, only one of our fears came true," you smile sadly, cuddling Toby's back closer to you.
The cubs are quiet, wondering how this love story was related to your heartbeat. You realise that you'd deviated madly from the topic and quickly correct yourself, "So, I had to get a pacemaker and a whole lot of transplants and transfusions. It took me 5 months just to get out of bed without my heart being overexerted. The reason you can't hear my heartbeat is because the pacemaker is too low for your ears."
"Why did the guy you liked get blamed for what happened to you?" Lucius asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and concern.
"Nobody believed him," you shrug, giving a rue smile, "By the time I got out of the hospital, it was too late for me to help him in any way. No one even told me where he was, what happened to him, where they took him. All I know is that he was punished for no fault of his..."
It's been 10 years since it took place, yet your heart always burns in your chest as you recount it. The cubs look sad and confused, so you try to cheer them.
"But in a way, it also turned out to be a small blessing in disguise. Because after that, I decided to visit the orphanage to adopt certain children. And guess who God gave me?" you ask teasingly, grinning.
"Us!" Fariah declares happily, her innocent sweet 11 year old voice making you laugh.
"Yes, I got you little munchkins," you laugh, tickling her so she giggles and falls on the bed on your lap beside Toby.
"But how did his punishment lead to you deciding to adopt werewolves?" Thalia asks, tilting her head and cocking her ear up in the air to hear your answer better.
"Sweetheart," you smile softly, "Even though a human stabbed me and nearly stopped my heart forever, the one who really stole my heart was a werewolf."
When you adopted an orphaned werewolf cub, you expected to end up with a ravening blood-thirsty monster. Instead, you ended up with a fairly normal kid who occasionally becomes an adorable puppy.
WARNING : Contains themes of self-hate, mild suicidal mention if you squint hard enough, and enough depression to give a dog a heart attack
"Yourself?" the alchemist raises an eyebrow behind his wire-rimmed frames.
You swallow, feeling embarrassed already, but nod.
"Yes, um, they're for me," you answer hesitantly, trying not to let him see how awkward you're feeling.
The alchemist surveys you with an unrecognisable emotion in his eyes that's either disgust or concern or confusion. Or probably even a mix of all 3. You really have no clue. Either ways, it makes you feel like you're being literally dissected and observed from every point of view possible, and you squirm uncomfortably in the chair.
"You know how love potions work, am I right?" the alchemist asks, and you almost jump in your seat as he speaks after what feels like an eternity.
"Um, right, yes! I, uh, the person you like drinks it and then, if you're the first person he or she sees, they fall in love with you," you recite quickly. You had memorised the line off Wikipedia from the number of times you'd contemplated using a love potion.
The alchemist gives you another deep, profound look, before delivering the very line you'd dreaded hearing from the moment you came up with the stupid plan, "It's not going to work."
You sigh in resignation, slumping forward and burying your face in your palms.
"Why not?" you ask quietly, forgetting to hide the tremble in your voice.
"Because the only person who can make you love yourself is you yourself," he says, and you look up, confused.
"What? Do you really think I don't know that? That I haven't tried?" you ask, getting mildly pissed, "I have tried so many times, for so many years, to love myself. You think I don't want to feel confident? To feel amazing about myself for once? To feel like, it's okay to be alive? You think I don't wish I was like the other people? You think I don't wish I were someone who doesn't want to claw her eyeballs out everytime she gets reminded of how imperfect she is? I've tried, Doctor, I have tried everything. I tried encouraging myself. I tried not to think negatively about myself. I tried to keep myself motivated. I tried to talk it out with friends, family, to keep myself away from drastic measures. But no one, NO ONE is ever there to watch me sob in bed at 2 a.m because I'm just a huge bloody mess. I have done my best to act as my own therapist for years and years now, and it doesn't work. How am I supposed to convince myself that I'm worthy of survival? That I'm not just a waste of time, space and money? You think I don't know, that the only person who can love myself truly is me? You think I don't want that?!"
You have to admit, the alchemist had nerves of steel to just sit there and observe you calmly as you ranted angrily in front of him. He gives you a few seconds to calm down and silently offers you a glass of water.
"Sorry," you try to apologise after the outburst, immediately feeling ashamed, but he shakes his head.
"Don't be sorry. It's a common experience for those who feel self-hatred to want to lash out occassionally and wish they were different," he says with all the calmness of a gentle ocean breeze.
"...so, why won't the love potion work?" you ask carefully.
"Because the love potion only makes people's emotions towards you change. It can't change your emotions. If you don't like yourself, you can't drink it and expect your emotions to change," the alchemist says. He's still simply sitting behind his desk, elbows resting on the polished rosewood desk, fingers interlocked below his chin, his gaze on you.
You sigh, disappointed. "Alright then, I suppose this was just a waste...Thank you for your time." You stand, about to leave and go home and despair about another failed plan, when he stops you.
"I may not be a therapist," he says suddenly just as your hand grips the cold steel handle of the door, "But I can still give suggestions."
You pause, facing the door. Half of you wants to leave and never return again, but the better half of you forces you to stay, even if you're still facing the door.
"Like what?" you ask, and your voice is so fragile, so brittle, begging for hope and love and acceptance, a voice so dangerously close to being pushed over the edge, a voice that's screaming for help, even if you'll never admit it. As you turn to face the alchemist, he can see the pain in your eyes as you rebuke yourself mentally for ever being here, the dread in the taut lines of your face as you mentally scold yourself for troubling the alchemist with your petty problems, the resignation in your pursed mouth as you wait for him to deliver advice that you've probably heard all your life.
"I know, there's clearly not much that I can say that will ever possibly make you feel better. I know, trust me. I've seen others go down that rabbit hole before too. And...the only thing that helps? Forgetting it exists. Get to work. Get to life. Work. Eat. Sleep. Study. Meet friends. Have fun. And for a while, forget your problems. I'm no therapist. I don't know what you're supposed to say to a person going through absence of self-esteem. But distracting yourself and reminding yourself that life's not all about you can make you better. It may not drag away the problems. It may not make you feel awesome all of a sudden. But it can give you a break. A resting period, where you can gather your strength once again to fight your battles. Just stop thinking for a while, and be busy."
You're surprised. You thought he'd tell you some amazing life secret that nobody knew that could magically fix your problems. Hey, miracles do happen now and then.
But instead, he just tells you to be busy.
For a second, you're annoyed, and you're about to tell him that you're a very busy person as it is.
But then you get what he means.
He meant to be so engrossed in living life, that you forget about your problems now and then. Your mind can freshen itself to face the problems of your heart another day. He meant that you should be so concentrated in working, relaxing, enjoying, laughing, smiling, speaking, that your brain doesn't get the time to hate yourself. He meant that you should live your life in your own way to the fullest, so that even if you hate yourself, you can never say that you didn't give life a shot. That even if you hate yourself and don't think you deserve to exist, the one good thing you managed to do was live life to the best of it.
And somehow, even though you still hate yourself, even though you still wish you were never born, you manage to offer the alchemist a small smile. A smile with hope, acceptance, and the determination to keep moving on. A smile that holds the courage to face the world and yourself with renewed vigour. A smile that holds all the pain of a person drowning in self-hate, yet also holding the joy of a person who knows what to do.
"Thank you, Doctor. I guess I didn't need the love potion after all."
“You have to understand, the use of love potions is both morally gross and legally r-”, you interrupt the alchemist, and say the potion is meant for yourself.
With all the power in the world, it only took a week before the minimal joys were sucked dry from the marrow of life.
Why worry about anything when they can be fixed within the snap of a finger? Financial burdens? Gone. Hunger? Gone. Eagerness to travel? Also gone.
There was simply no need to have any wishes or aspirations. They had been long dealt with within minutes.
Worst of all was the effect it placed upon your surrounding peers. You could see a sense of greed growing in their eyes as they asked you for more and more favors. It formed a rather nasty codependent relationship.
So with no more prospects or people, you also decided to live on the outskirts, trying hard to gain back any sense of purpose before the powers were gifted to you. The man disappeared before you even had the chance to tell that you understand it, and to please take back this curse. But it is now yours to bear. You may as well live with it.
You finally meet the man with all the power in the world, but to your surprise he is living the quiet life, not using his powers. You ask why and he just gives you, his powers. You understand why now.
I got my powers when I was 26, which is pretty average. These powers don't materialize until your brain is as developed as it going to get (which thank God for that. Imagine what it would be like with a bunch of kids running around with super powers!) Some people get dreams that inform them about their powers in some way, some people just know how to use their powers without any instructions. Other people, the ones I feel sorry for, get no instructions nor mysterious knowledge, and have to go with more of a Fuck Around and Find Out method, which doesn't always work.
Because of when the powers choose to materialize themselves, many people choose to hold off on picking their career until their powers materialize. I, however, did not.
My thinking was that these powers were supposed to match who you are or your personality or something along those lines. If that's the case, my powers should fit with my career of choice, no matter what it is. In a way, I suppose it does. Though sometimes, I still wonder if I should have gone into something in humanities.
I had just finished medical school and was on track to become a neurologist. I received my powers, introduced through a liquored up dream after a night of celebrating with my friends. In the dream, I was tied to a set of train tracks, alone, with a lone train car at the end, ready to run me over with the flip of a switch. Then, I was one of five people tied to a set of train tracks, with a line train car ready to run us all over, or run only one person over at the flip of a switch. Then, I was the one at the switch, trying to decide whether to kill the one, or kill the five after being in their places. I couldn't decide. I woke up in a cold sweat with the chilling words "is one life worth the cost of many? You cannot stop this train car" echoing in my head.
After that, I quickly changed my special interest from a neurologist to an emergency medical specialist, with many questions from those around me that I couldn't answer. I went through residency without incident.
I've now been a doctor for 6 years in EMS, still without incident. Every single person I've helped has lived, even those that maybe shouldn't have. Some of my coworkers seem to think I'm some sort of medical god, breathing life back into the dead and dying. Others just assume it's because of my powers, not that anyone knows what it is.
The only problem is, it's not because of my powers that everyone lives. I still haven't activated my powers. My powers won't be activated until I let one person die. I have no idea why everyone lives, and I wish there was just one person who wouldn't. Then I would at least be able to proceed with confidence that everyone will live, rather than this haunting uncertainty of when that one will show up. I've considered pulling the plug on a comatose patient who doesn't show signs of waking up. I've considered being just a little too hasty with a patient on the brink of death. But just like in the dream, I was never able to knowingly sacrifice someone.
Out of all the superpowers out there, you consider yours the most sadistic; you can save any number of innocent people from death in the face of danger, but to gain that ability, you must kill an innocent person. Named after the infamous moral thought experiment, you are… Trolley Man.
From now through March you can send me an ask with a (sfw) prompt you'd like me to write! As long as I'm comfortable with it, I'll start working on my responses in April.
Prompts can be for fic or your own original idea and while I mostly write for MHA, if you have smth else in mind there's no harm in asking if I'm familiar with the fandom :)
also, if you're interested in any of the fic wips i've talked about on here (or my in-progress ao3 fics) you can send me an ask with the title and i'll be sure to set aside time to work on them and share snippets of my progress! (fic wips listed below the cut)
I'm excited to see your prompts!!
tumblr fic wips
short for grenade: talked about here, here, and here a la three wise men and a baby (i seriously need a better title for this series lmao): part 1 & part 2 probably not, dabihawks version: here (and the official, slightly more polished version of the platonic-ish bkdk 'probably not' piece is on ao3 here) let it sink in: here spelling bee monster: mentioned at the bottom of the fake tweet post, here trophy husband, who?: here cat-suki: here (legitimately forgot i'd posted about this one lol)
ao3 wips
summer daze: here little troubles: here
Writing sprint tag game!
(Even if you haven’t been tagged, you are happily invited to participate!)
Here’s how the game works:
1) set aside some time to complete a 10-20min writing sprint, breaking up your writing time and break time however you see fit (I’ll prob do 10 min writing, a 5 min break, and then another 5 or 10 min of writing)
*if you want to do a shorter or a longer writing sprint, that’s totally fine too! 10-20min is just a low-pressure guideline
2) complete the sprint!
even if you cringe at the words you put down, the point is simply to get more words on the page than what you started with, so write that awkward sentence! skip that fiddly bit to write the scene you have inspiration for! anything new that ends up on the page is progress and anything you don’t love can always be edited later
3) have fun :)
remember, this sprint is a little nudge to help you reconnect with your creative writing. it’s 100% low-pressure, anything goes, and we’re all in it together 💪
4) share your sprint results
this part is totally optional but if you’d like to play along, reblog this post (or copy-paste the rules into a new post) with as many (or as few) answers as you feel comfortable sharing
*and if you make a new post, pls tag me so i can clap and cheer for you!!
how long was your sprint?
how many words did you write?
*anything more than zero is great!
what project did you complete the sprint for?
what did you end up adding to your WIP (or new project)?
*no need to share specific lines since the sprint’s focus is quantity over quality, but absolutely go wild with the overview. did you add a whole new scene? a new character? important dialogue for character development? a fun side quest you hadn’t planned on? an interesting bit you have no idea what to do with?
what part of your new writing excites you the most?
5) connect with your fellow writeblrs!
tag people in your response post to keep the creative energy flowing and offer encouragement and kudos to those who participate and share their progress!
gently tagging my writing moots to get this started:
@peaceheather @antsday @moody-tortured-artist @agirlandherquill @ohromeoraine @sorrowsfallallaround
shoot me a message or comment if you don't want to be tagged in these sorts of things (or if i haven't tagged you and you would like to be tagged in the future for writing things)
for the last prompt:
“Don’t touch those books, sweetie. They have souls.”
Miranda hesitated with her fingers poised over a golden spine.
“Excuse me?” she asked, wide-eyed and more than a little fearful.
The librarian simply rolled her eyes, adjusting the hem of her coffee-colored sweater. “Did you not read the danger signs we passed?”
Slowly, Miranda lowered her hands and laced them behind her back. “Thought that was another of Dougie’s pranks,” she murmured quietly.
The librarian sighed.
“Miss Pickery-"
“I still don’t know why you hired my brother,” Miranda interrupted, eyes slipping back to the shiny, golden book she had been tempted to pull off the shelf. “He’s not exactly…bookish. Or terribly employable.”
“Well, he doesn’t attempt to touch the books with souls, for one,” the librarian replied.
Miranda pressed her lips together firmly, attention slipping guiltily to the carpeted floor and catching on an oblong stain that the librarian gestured to with the toe of her heeled boot.
“And he doesn’t suffer the consequences of such misbehavior like my previous apprentice, Ronald.”
Miranda couldn’t help the startled gasp that left her as she drew her arms closer to the center of her body, head whipping back and forth in the narrow aisle to ensure no part of her was near any part of these…these murdering, soul-having books.
Seriously, if Miranda had known about Ronald the Oblong Stain when she’d received her brother’s stupid email about checking out his “cool new job”, Miranda would have deleted it without a second thought. Unread, unreplied to, and un…un-in danger, Miranda thought sternly.
The librarian frowned back at her, all sharp featured and unimpressed, like she was privy to Miranda’s imaginary word making.
“U-um, so where is Dougie, anyway, Miss?”
“Late,” the librarian replied. She raised her right wrist to peer at a square watch wrapped over her sweater sleeve, the arms curved like octopus tentacles and spinning far faster than the plain, round one on Miranda’s own wrist. “Or perhaps early, depending.”
“Depending on what?”
“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be conversing with Ronald, instead,” the librarian murmured to herself, causing a deep frown to appear over Miranda’s face.
Oblong Stain-Man, one. Miranda, zero.
“Well, he invited me here,” Miranda petulantly reminded the woman. “I’m still not sure why, but I doubt it was to kill me so is it possible for us to wait for him in a different section of the library? Maybe one without, you know, danger signs?”
The librarian gave Miranda a swift once-over, then peered up at the ceiling, expression unchanging.
“No. Here will do.”
“Oh, okay,” Miranda whispered shakily. “I’ll just stay here and try not to turn into goo, then.”
“Oh, pish posh,” the librarian dismissed, waving her hand in the air. “That Evelyn has much more flare than that. She would have ignited you, most definitely.”
“E-Evelyn?” Miranda repeated, peering behind herself for other, potentially-murderous library patrons. Perhaps one carrying a blowtorch.
“The book you were going to touch,” the librarian explained. “She has quite a flair for the dramatic, that girl. Your death would have been very phoenix-like.”
Miranda eyed the golden-spined book with far more wariness than before.
“Phoenix-like…” she echoed. “Like…as in I’d come back to life?”
The librarian’s nose scrunched. “As in you’d go up in a spark of flames and crumble to ash before you could say-”
“Mimi!” Dougie called out happily, appearing in a cart-like contraption over their heads. Dougie tugged gently on a hanging rope within his cart and the whole thing slowed to a squeaky stop.
Miranda eyed the small cylinder of metal attaching the cart to the track embedded in the ceiling with open skepticism.
“Took ya long enough,” he said, smiling.
“Took me-?!” Miranda began to sputter, only to be silenced by a hand from the librarian.
“Douglas,” she greeted calmly. “Anything to report?”
Dougie’s smile turned slightly bashful, and he scratched the back of his head. “Not yes, Miss. But with Mimi here, things should be fixed in a snap!”
“I fucking hate that name,” Miranda muttered darkly beneath her breath.
“Quit whining, girl,” the librarian said, not unkindly. “It’s time to go.”
“Please,” Miranda agreed, quickly ascending the thin, metal stairs that had stretched out from Dougie’s cart like a particularly slow accordion. She would happily go anywhere to get away from Evelyn and Ronald and who knows who else.
The librarian followed quickly after.
“Where are we going?” Miranda asked, cringing at the grating noise emanating from the ceiling as the cart rocked jerkily back into motion. “To lunch?”
Dougie’s email had promised lunch.
“Uhhh, not to lunch,” Dougie admitted, ignoring Miranda’s heavily disappointed sigh. “We need you to fix something, actually.”
“And it’s not a sandwich?” Miranda pressed hopefully.
“Sorry, sis,” Dougie laughed. “It’s…uh, well it’s a little bit bigger than that.”
“These swinging death cages, then?” she tried next. Because they could use some serious oiling, but otherwise seemed mostly stable. Even if the eccentric design didn’t invite anything but distrust.
Dougie pulled on the rope again as they entered a new room and Miranda brought her hands up to cover her ears while she peered curiously over the edge of the cart, still hoping in vain for a cafe or a bistro.
What she saw instead was a massive, boiler-looking thing, with moving arms on just about every square inch of its rusting, bronze surface, rounded caps lifting periodically to release hissing trails of white steam.
What really caught her attention, though, was the small door built into its base, boasting a massive dent and an odd array of talon-like scratches along its surface. And one scrawled out word.
Miranda Pickery.
“...well,” Miranda said slowly, hands falling to her hips as she quietly examined the structure. “Surely I’m not the only Miranda Pickery in the area. Total coincidence, really.”
The librarian’s wrinkly hand landed on Miranda’s shoulder, her other pointing towards the far end of the boiler room.
Miranda followed her gaze to a large, hand-painted mural spanning the entire length of the flaking wall. The figures were all done in black, or perhaps a very deep blue, and nearly impossible to make out in the dim space. The orange light from the boiler only illuminated the lowest section, where there were rows and rows of what looked like people, carrying stacks of what looked like books, and a few, hanging, claw-like feet that suggested an array of birds above their heads.
The librarian clapped and the space flooded with blue light. Hovering orbs lined the room like street lamps- above the boiler but below the cart- revealing a concerning amount of bookshelves lining this room, too.
A concerning amount of bookshelves and Miranda’s likeness, that is, painted in the very center of the mural with such detail that any hopes of pawning off this mystery onto some other hapless sod immediately wilted and died within her heart.
“Oh,” Miranda said dumbly.
“Oh,” the librarian agreed.
“So…” Dougie started, awkwardly clapping his hands together. “Lunch, anyone?”
A 24/7 library has no staff, but those who enter never think to steal.
"We can't make out! This is a library!"
A magical university has a library that changes its contents entirely whenever it hits midnight.
"Shh! Reading time."
A library is the only building unaffected by a massive earthquake.
"Where did you get that book?"
A group of academics decide they want to be buried alive in the cursed library that the government are burying.
"Don't touch those books, sweetie. They have souls."
New story idea-Only those with “the sight” can see the path into the woods. Those that follow it come out with special gifts. Alyssa desperate to have an extraordinary life finds a way to see the path without the sight🤔
Apparently the heat wave is thanks to my customer who told me she was praying for the ridge of high pressure that is keeping the heat in because it’s also keeping hurricanes away. I’m not saying there were virgins sacrificed, but the way she said “I’ll do just about anything to make sure we don’t get another storm.” makes me think there was at least one😳