The idea is to start with an image and each person writes about it as en sees it, in the writer’s choice of style. See the original thread for clarification and inspiration.
(You may continue to write about a prompt that is no longer current.)
Current prompt: a broken piece of ceramic half-buried in dirt
Next up:
Previous:
a crumpled piece of paper, the ink run so much that you can only read one word
a mirror
a starless sky
a pile of mail on the countertop
a city whose streets are built on ancient ruins
Prompt suggestion: A starless sky
I looked up. I moved my hands. It felt so real. The simulation wasn’t perfect, of course. The sky was starless, just blackness. But it was good enough. I picked up a pebble on the ground. I tossed it up and down. They have a great physics generator here. I thought. Suddenly, a knight in armor nearly ran me over.
“Good sir!” He yelled “Are you by any chance known as-” He checked a parchment “Alfred Cayer?”
“Yes, knight.” I said. They sure had increased my avatar’s muscle mass. My big beefy arms hung at my sides.
“Take the steed and go to the castle on the hill to rescue the damsel!” He said. I took the horse. Galloping down, I reached a stream. Mist covered it. A sign said “Those who dare to enter here, know your end is near.” I wished that they wouldn’t put signs like that in. It made you doubt that you’d get pulled out if you rendered the situation un-winnable. I took the horse across the stream, the mud almost stopping it moving. I reached the other side, and saw the castle. It was about 10 floors. I reached the entrance.
“Beware!” Yelled an old crone by the entrance. “Do not enter!”
“I am here to rescue the damsel!” I said.
“Oh. In that case, take this.” She pulled out a sword. “Use this to cut the chains that hold the Damsel of Startling Beauty! And to kill the sorceress who holds her!” I took the sword.
“Is that really her name, the Damsel of Startling Beauty?” I asked.
“Nobody knows her true name. The sorceress kidnapped her at birth.” She said. I looked up at the starless sky again. It was a little unnerving, but I knew that that would probably be the last time I saw it. I walked into the castle. A huge flight of stairs went up. I heard a scream from high above, with cackling under it. I ran up, 10 flights, until I reached the Damsel of Startling Beauty.
This Damsel of Startling Beauty was not your average damsel in distress. This one had ice cold features, a beautiful grin, and a dress that looked to be made of snow. The long black locks of hair fell down her dress. This damsel looked like she could escape anything. Then, I saw I blond, helpless looking damsel behind her, held on chains. The damsel I had assumed was the one to be rescued was the sorceress.
“Who are you that dare enter here?” The sorceress asked.
“I’m Alfred Cayer. I’m here to rescue her!” I said.
“You’ll have to fight me first.” She grinned. I lifted my sword. She sent a bolt of magic at me, which I narrowly missed. I worked my way toward her, dodging magic. I held the sword to her neck. I prepared to stab. I looked at her. She was better than the damsel. She looked as if she had been driven to this by someone. She was crying.
“No.” I said, putting down my sword.
“You will give up the damsel?” She asked.
“Yes. I do not want her.” I said. The damsel yelped.
“Do not fall under her spell! If you rescue me, I will be you love forever! I will marry you! I will do what you want!” She seemed distressed.
“No. I do not want someone who will bend to my will.” I said. “Come, sorceress. What is your name?”
“You prefer me over her?” The sorceress asked.
“No!” The damsel yelled. “Do not fall for her spell!”
“Shut up.” I said to the damsel. “You are a real nuisance. How did you put up with her for so long?” I asked the sorceress.
“My name is Isabel.” She said.
“Come with me, Isabel.” I said. We walked over to the window. “Look at the sky.” We stared out together. Isabel gasped.
“There are no stars! There have to be stars! What happened to them?” She cried.
“There never were stars. This world, this damsel, even you. It’s all fake.” I said.
“I’m real! I swear! I’m real! You’re lying! You’re just trying to catch me so you can kill me!” She yelled at me.
“No! I really do love you. And it really is fake. Just think.” I said to her. She stared at me.
“Nobody’s ever told me to think before. They just wanted me like her. Subservient, stupid, and pretty.” She said. “Will you love me if I think?”
“Yes.” I said. Suddenly, everything seemed to flicker. It was first the stasis chamber, then back to the castle, back and forth. It finally stopped at the castle. This had never happened to me before. One last flicker to the stasis chamber, and I heard faintly
“We’ve lost him, Jim. He’s not coming back. Might as well flesh out the simu-”
And I was back in the castle. Isabel ran to me. She hugged me. I looked out the window behind her. There were stars.
Epilogue:
There was no body at the funeral. How could there be? The stasis chamber needed the body conscious before the body could be removed. The family gathered around the minister as he said a few words. The family cried. Alfred Cayer was gone from this world, into the next. Well, not the next. He was still in his fantasy stasis game, taking up 50 Terrabytes of computing space. At 90 gigflops, it might well have been the real world. He would live forever. Would he notice? The family hoped not. He could never come back. Everyone hoped he wouldn’t want to come back. He didn’t. All he needed was Isabel.
Brilliant.
“Damsel of startling beauty.” I love that.
Thanks! Here’s an alternate ending.
“Nobody’s ever told me to think before. They just wanted me like her. Subservient, stupid, and pretty.†She said. “Will you love me if I think?â€
“Yes.†I said. Suddenly, everything seemed to flicker. It was first the stasis chamber, then back to the castle, back and forth. She walked towards me as everything was flickering. We hugged. Suddenly, it stopped at the stasis chamber. I had lost her forever. The game was over. I cried, for my love who never was.
Okay. I love poems, so here;
A Starless Sky
She looks up
Waiting, watching, wondering
Why there is no light
Where the stars go
When they don’t light up the world
Is there a house? she wonders
A bed, for when they are tired?
A mother, to cook and read?
Then, suddenly
Dawn
And she knows
They collect in a dish
And form the sun
By LBK
If the great and might GAPA’s can, would you center the part in italics? A bijillion thanks if you can.
SFTDP Hmm. I guess centering is beyond even the mightiest GAPAs. Oh, well.
We don’t do it very often,
but we can
on special occasions.
Yay! Thank you!
*bows*
Yay! Someone likes my poetry!
SFTDP Or were you bowing to the GAPAs?
Alyssa looked up at the starless sky for what had to be the thousandth time. Only after she was pushed, did she realize that she had stood still on the sidewalk, staring up at the sky.
Had she ever seen stars? Alyssa thought. She wanted to say that she had, but then she realized that the artificial memories were those shared by several others in a movie theater.
What did they really look like? Sure, she’d seen footage, but they didn’t seem so spectacular. Something about seeing them in person must have been why people were so fascinated with them.
She really did like the moon. She rarely saw it on top of the light and the smoke and the clouds, but when she did, she loved it. She knew that stars were much smaller (according to the movies), so why were they so magnificent?
As Alyssa walked around the corner to enter her building, she made the resolution that she didn’t need the stars. Why should she worry herself over specks of light? She pressed for floor 12. The elevator was slow; she had more time to think.
Just specks of light…. Don’t need… Not so great….
Her second thoughts agreed, but her third thoughts knew that she wanted to see the stars. She wanted to know the stars, but if you asked Alyssa, she would have answered that she did not. She wouldn’t think that she was lying.
She stepped out of the filthy elevator, and on to the shiny floor. She couldn’t keep the elevator clean with everyone going on it everyday, but she could conquer the mess of her floor. She didn’t like to go on the other floors; they made her want to puke.
“Alyssa!? Is that you?” a scratchy voice shouted.
“Yes, mom!” The others living on the floor dealt with their noise in return for Alyssa cleaning the floor. At least, that’s what they thought. Alyssa and her mom (well, mainly Alyssa) would have been more quiet if anyone had said anything. Her mom wouldn’t give a damn.
“Did you get-”
“Yes, mom,” she repeated. Her mom always insisted on her running out and buying some strange food. Today it wasn’t so bad. Alyssa quite liked Sushi rolls.
“Did you get the vegetarian kind?” She stood in the doorway with her short robe on and her dark hair wrapped in a towel.
“No.” What? Did she just say no? If she ever forgot something, she would usually run out and get it, but this time she simply stated that she hadn’t.
“Well, alright then,” her mom wasn’t angry, but a bit shaken. “Come on in and we’ll cook it.”
“You don’t cook sushi, mom,” she rolled her eyes. The bags threatened the table with their weight.
“I found this interesting recipe online…” and that’s how it went on. Her mom would find a recipe online, and send Alyssa to find whatever she desired. Alyssa didn’t mind. Her mother was good-hearted.
—
After a night of disastrous cooking, Alyssa sat on an old chair and looked out through her window. She sat for a long time. Hours passed by, and she kept staring. The moon was at its brightest. After she noticed this, she stared some more.
“I’m going asleep!”
“‘Kay.” Alyssa didn’t move her eyes.
In the midst of the long night, Alyssa almost fell asleep several times, but she persisted. Alyssa didn’t know what she was persisting with, but she kept on doing it. Earlier thoughts of stars had drifted away. Now she was just looking at the starless sky.
For just a moment, if that much, she could have sworn that a star had worked extra hard just for her to see what she had been secretly hoping for. A star shone through the muck and the clouds and the lights, for Alyssa. Alyssa stopped time right there. Well, that was what she wished as the star became a memory.
She began to plan her trip to somewhere where she could call back to the stars. Somewhere where she didn’t have to find them, but where they would find her.
Prompt suggestion: Animals that are fighting to survive
There’s already a prompt, and it’s barely started, but we could use that later.
(But it sounds a little too much like some other fantasy books *coughWarriorscough*)
I guess I’ll try this. It probably won’t turn out to be any good.
Standing at the highest edge of the ravine, looking down, one could see the forest tribe, slinking about, catching meat for their evening meal. You could see the rolling hills, the beautiful trees with their pretty flowers, and the clear blue waters of the River. But if you were to take the risk of looking up at me, you would see nothing, only the expanse of darkness, and maybe a sliver of the moon.
The eye alone could see nothing in my vast emptiness. If you came across a thing that could magnify blackness a hundred, thousand times, you might be able to see a faint glow coming from the stars.
The beings on this planet, unfortunate enough to live in the blackness, have tried countless times to unravel my mysteries. So have I, myself, always to no avail. One creature, though, was still trying its hardest. A man of the forest tribe, who had always been one of the more adventurous ones, always the one to look harder, run faster, kill quicker, giving his victims mercy.
I watched the man, watching me, taking away the time. Some would consider him evil, and some would consider him one of the nicer men of the tribe. I considered him nothing but curious. I know he had heard the Elders of the tribe’s tales of the time when there were once millions of points of lights in me. The time before everything went dark. I had a feeling there will be a time when this man will find out why I have been silenced, why I can no longer turn the star’s light on this poor planet.
This time will not come easily, for I believe there are beings higher in power than I, beings that do not want this man to succeed.
That’s all I’ve got. I’ll probably turn this into another story.
Tantalizing… the speaker seems to me like some kind of minor god.
Yeah, kind of. The speaker is the sky.
*Coughrightcough*
Anyway, I did not know how long prompts are supposed to last.
There’s no set rule, somewhat depends on traffic. We’ll give this one at least today. But you can make suggestions any time.
Question: Can the themes for this thread include starter sentences? Or is that a different thread?
You can certainly suggest a starter sentence, though people are free to use it as they choose.
I looked up at the sky. The clouds covering it discouraged me. I had always loved the stars. Loved the hope the represented. They were the hope, the hope of the world. When the space researchers finally developed faster than light travel, they could leave this once-fertile rock and find somewhere to start over. A new, untouched, perfect, world. I almost felt sorry for that world. We had ruined one world, and now we were reaching out to another, to ruin it in time. They said we knew better now, but it was a lie. If we truly knew better, we would stay here and fix it, so that life could exist on it again, before we moved on. Even if we could not restore it to its former glory, we could improve it enough that it would recover, in time.
But I knew stating those views would do nothing. We would leave this barren planet behind, leave it to its own devices. I could not change that.
The girl went inside. A few drops of rain fell. It was as if Earth was sobbing for the children she had given so much to, who were now leaving her without a backwards glance.
It was a shame the girl did nothing. The thousands of others that agreed with her could have done much to save the world.
The purple sky overhead shimmered.
“Do you know, back when I was a girl…” I rolled my eyes at my grandmother. No need to hear another one of her stupid stories that were supposed to make me feel “more appreciative of my life” or what-Ever. “The sky was black, always. And it had lots of little shiny things – things called stars.”
“Huh?” I asked, glancing up at her old, worn face spotted with wrinkles, a mark of her old age. I knew that she had seen so much and was very wise, but I still didn’t really think about just how much she had really seen.
“Yes, m’dear. They were called stars,” She repeated. She looked up at the sky wistfully, as if if she stared at it long enough the strange things that she spoke of might appear.
“But then – then what happened to them, Grandma?” I asked.
“Well…they brought in – they brought in this new technology, you know? They brought in big machines and smoke and horrible things. They spoke of pollution and saving the planet – but all they did was take away the stars we all knew so well and put in fake, artificial colors each night.” She sighed and glanced down at the ground, as if she couldn’t bare to face the truth, couldn’t bare to look at the new, wonderful sky I had always lived under for the past 11 years.
“But colors are so beautiful, Grandma!” I protested. “Black is so – so boring. So plain. I can understand why they would want to change it.” Grandma sighed.
“You must have seen to understand, m’dear.” She replied simply. “The black was beautiful in itself. During the day – there was blue. And during the night, as if the stars could talk itself, they sparkled overhead on top of the black. They were wondrous, beautiful things and now they have been taken away from us. Promise – promise when you are older, you will not forget the stars. No forget stars.” Her words left her lips and as if right on cue her head sighed and she closed her eyes in peaceful sleep.
“I will,” I replied. “I will save the stars.”
((First try, I know it’s not that good and the ending’s too sappy but…I think I like it overall.))
Merry sighed, leaning out the window. The stars had gone. She couldn’t see them anymore. She’d been hurt once too many times and the stars had left her. She should’ve known, she should have stayed away. Shouldn’t have tried to make it work, shouldn’t have tried to be friends. It never worked out for her. They always hurt her, burned her, their words stinging like wasps, tiny knives pricking her every time.
The stars had left her. They took her hope, her happiness. They took the stars as well.
(Am I allowed to do more than one response to the prompt?)
(Yes)
(Okay! I have a poem idea, too… might put it up later.)
She glared up into what was supposed to be an abyss of black, but the city’s lights reflected off the clouds like a fun house mirror, distorting the shape, leaving only a mix of colors. It seemed as if a Mardi Gras party had gone wrong in the sky, but she knew it happened every night and there wasn’t much she could do to stop it. She sank further into the car seat, staring out the small window in the back. It was disgusting, what her city did to the sky — not her city, the city. Something so horrible couldn’t be hers. She won’t take it. No, the last city was hers — blue skies, warm weather, pine cones strewn across the grown — it was respectful and accepted the climate it was given, using it to its best advantage. The only problem was, even there, pollution still covered the stars above. And in this new city it was much, much worse. Her closest friend in the new place turned her head toward her, wrenching her out of her fuming thoughts.
“You know, if we got enough people to sign a petition at the synagogue, and I bet we can, we could do something about it.” As usual, her friend knew what she was thinking. The words stirred something in her. We could do something about it. We could. We really could.
And that’s how it all started.
((Based on a scene in my own life.))
Theme suggestions: A well-loved teddy bear in a dumpster.
Someone standing in the rain. An empty movie theater. A pile of mail on the countertop. A paper heart, ripped in half. A polar bear, hungry and trapped. A field of wheat. I could go on all day.
God, I want to write something… but… but… later…
When Sophie was six, her father used to come wake her up very late at night. Still groggy with sleep, they would tiptoe out to the backyard and watch the stars. She can still remember his hands painting out the lines of constellations in the sky. Cassiopeia, Orion, Leo: he told all of the stories. She would lie wide-eyed, watching the myths play out as her father narrated the stars, which on those magical nights seemed to be free to gallivant around the sky.
On some occasions, they didn’t tiptoe quite quietly enough, and her mother would wake and send her back to bed. When that happened, her father would sneak back into her room when just enough time had passed that she was dozing off again, and they would make another bid for the backyard. Her mother never appeared on these second attempts; in hindsight, Sophie thinks that she probably knew about them all along. At the time, though, she knew only the excitement of sneaking outside with her father in the dead of night, and the magic of the stars.
After he was gone, she would still wake from time to time in the darkest hours of the night. In that moment between sleep and wakefulness she always felt him standing over her, waiting for her to drag herself out of the warmth of her bed. The first time, she ran to the backyard, barely remembering to tiptoe past her mother’s room, certain that he would be there waiting for her, a story poised waiting on his lips. She burst through the door and onto the dew-stained grass.
He was not there, and as she crumpled to the ground, the sky spun overhead. There were no stars. Not even the North Star, the true star, the first star Sophie had ever learned. Her father had told her that Polaris was how sailors found their way home, its steady presence guiding them. But it was gone, they all were, left her as he had left her, and without them she knew there was no way she would ever find her way back to him. He was gone.
She still woke up at night, but that was the last time she ventured outside. Instead she huddled beneath the covers, closing her eyes and wishing for sleep to come quickly.
On the night after her twelfth birthday, she awoke to the sound of her door softly closing. She figured that it was her mother checking on her, but as she rolled over to go back to sleep she caught sight of a gift on the floor. Curious, Sophie pushed off her blankets and got up, kneeling besides the package on the floor. Balanced on it was a note.
“Honey,
This belonged to your dad. He meant to give it to you when you were old enough to love it as much as he did. Happy birthday, Sophie.
Mom.â€
With shaking hands, Sophie pulled the wrapping paper off the package. The noise of the rustling paper seemed too loud in the silent room. When she saw what lay within, she closed her eyes for a moment, steeling herself against the memories. When she opened them, she crossed to her closet with a new determination and pulled on a sweater.
The route they had once taken was still familiar after all this time. Sophie quietly padded past the door of her mother’s room, down the stairs, over to the door that lead to the backyard. Then, with a deep breath and hands clenched tight around her present, she made her way out into the night.
It was there, with an astronomy book on her lap, that the stars reappeared for Sophie.
They lay on their backs in the front yard, staring up at the starry sky, pinpricks of white fire like perfect diamonds on black velvet. Grass tickled their bare arms and feet. A breeze rustled the leaves of the apple tree.
She began to cry. Hot tears which rolled down her face, splashing on the grass, reflecting the stars.
“It’ll be all right,” her sister said. “It’ll be fine.” But she too felt her eyes brimming, and the stars dissolved into a kaleidoscopic blur of glowing light and black sky.
“Look,” said their brother, too young to understand the truth. “Look! It’s starting.”
Slowly, the darkness flowed across the sky, extinguishing the fire of the stars, until at last, only one small point remained, glittering bravely in the sea of emptiness.
The girls turned their faces into the grass, weeping. The little boy between them watched, transfixed and solemn.
And the last star shuddered for a second, and winked out.
I woke up suddenly. Something wasn’t right. My eyes were still closed, and I absorbed my surroundings. It sounded normal, there were some crickets chirping, and an owl hooted loudly. But something was wrong. I allowed my eyes to fly open, and stifled a scream. No, no, no, I thought.
Theme suggestions:
A single, discarded raven feather.
An old oak tree.
A crumpled piece of paper, the ink run so much that you can only read one word.
A flash of light.
A mirror.
I shall write something later…. right now I’m working on fanfictions, or trying to.
Any strong feelings about any of the suggestions for the next prompt? Or should GAPAs pick at random?
I like “A mirror” but that’s just my opinion.
I like the crumpled piece of paper, that the ink ran so much that you can read only one word. It could be like a mini mystery almost. That’s just my opinion though.
I lik numbers 3 (paper), 4 (light), or 5 (mirror).
Maybe something about end of quarter/trimester/trimester tests?
The raven feather or the crumpled piece of paper.
The Night Will Soon be Starless
In this world, it is said that when a new life is born, so also is a new star born in the void that we call space. When someone dies, so too is their star extinguished.
In the beginning, when the Earth was young, and life was few, the night sky was very dim. However, when the god of our planet appeared, a great star called Sol appeared, and gave the race of Man hope. Night may be dark and dangerous, but when Sol appeared, Day was, and it was also bright enough to see and empower Man.
As life expanded and grew, it was said, the night sky became brighter and brighter, until the night sky was near as bright as the day.
However, Man grew too arrogant, and also began to fear the god which at first gave them hope. A month ago, although it feels much longer, the great country in the west challenged the god, and although many lives were lost, Man had won. Although some had great feasts, and many felt joyful, nearly a week later the sun Sol did not appear in morning, and each night more and more stars were blinking out, ending their joy and casting them into sorrow.
She slowly felt her way through the trees, the dim night weighing heavily upon her shoulders. She had travelled far, but her journey was not over yet. Although there were no monsters, seeing was a difficulty in itself. Although it was twilight when the god died, many men were dying, and the twilight became night. There was a curse placed on Man by the fallen god.
She was leaving the woods, and now, on a cold beach, she could see the night sky clearly. Nearly all of the stars were gone. As she wept, the cold waves crashed upon the shore, and she knew that the night will soon be starless.
Agh, I typed a better version at 15:00, but my mobile phone had a “connection error.” ;(
Apologies for not keeping capitalization and tone consistent. ‘Twas rather rude on my behalf.
What about these:
an explosion
a whisper
the peak of an eclipse
Or these:
A well-loved teddy bear in a dumpster.
Someone standing in the rain.
An empty movie theater.
A pile of mail on the countertop.
A paper heart, ripped in half.
A polar bear, hungry and trapped.
A field of wheat.
OK, I’ll try it. It will be terrible, I’m sure, but I need to work on writing anyways…
((Oh dear, this is going to be terrible depressing.))
The dark had always scared her. She no longer believed that there were monsters beneath her bed or behind her closet. At least, not most of the time. Yet still, the eeriness of the dark prevailed.
And there she was all alone in the park. She hadn’t meant to be there, but somehow her midnight perambulations had led her to that vast open place. She cursed her insomnia, her feet, even her Senator, anything or anyone that could possible be to blame.
The streetlights were off. She didn’t know why. Maybe the afternoon’s storm had caused a power outage. Maybe the city council was too broke to keep them on. All she knew was that it was dark and that she was alone. She looked up, hoping to find a point of light, a shimmer of comfort. But alas, the sky was starless.
We climbed higher and higher, to reach the very tops of the forest trees. Each one formed a sort of ladder, branch after branch after branch, hand after hand, grasping, pulling ourselves up. Once we got to the very top there would be no more branches in the way and we could see the whole sky from horizon to horizon.
Jenny reached it first. “It’s beautiful!” she gasped, “Not at all like earth’s, but beautiful.”
I looked up then, a few branches from the top. They formed rivers of black in the glowing shimmering fabric. It was if the whole sky was covered in sunset and dawn and it moved like the northern lights.
These are really cool. I love how everyone’s story is completely different.
a starless sky-
I
stars.
who needs stars?
they’re not bright enough to light up my world.
II
she climbed-
farther
higher.
she reached, and grabbed.
she hid them in a little box
so they would shine…
only for her eyes.
I have an idea for a new prompt: a city whose streets are built upon ancient ruins.
In the first days, there was nothing, just an empty, starless sky. Then, out of the nothing, came a star. Some say this star is God, but it is not. The star is a goddess, the goddess of light. The goddess mated with the moon, and produced her children, the stars. But none of them shined as brightly as the goddess, or as the humans call her, the North Star. But everything must die someday, and the goddess will too. The goddess will witness the nuclear destruction of the Earth, followed by several other planets as the humans look for replacements of Earth. Her children will die one by one, until only the goddess is left. Then, like a candle being snuffed out, she will die, too.
It was winter in the city Lara’s human grandparents had left so long ago. Snow covered the rubble, making what was left of the buildings look even more desolate. Her footsteps were too loud as she crunched through the snow, so she stopped where she could see her ship. It was hard to imagine that anyone had ever lived there. Thick clouds covered the night sky, hiding the stars, but Lara knew that if if weren’t for the clouds she could see Talvar, her planet’s star. She did not know why she had come back to this dead planet, when the Empire would soon declare war on the Lapriks for what they had done. She had never seen this city before, although her grandfather had told her about it.
“Once Earth was a beautiful place, but it hasn’t been like that for… a long time. More and more people left. You grandmother and I stayed longer than most, but even we left when your father said he was engaged to a Talgron girl.” Lara had always felt more Vagnar than human. She had been furious when she heard people talk about her fiance, Vennron, wanting to marry a human girl. Like he cared where her father had come from!
It was hard to imagine this place as ever beautiful. It was terrible, of course, that the Lapriks had invaded Earth and then decided it wasn’t worth the bother. They were clearly trying to make the Empire declare war, and they and their allies would probably do this to many other planets before the Empire defeated them. But this city had been abanded lond before them, and Lara wondered if she was the first living creature to set foot here in more than twenty years. She shuddered at the thought, and walked back to her ship.
After she had gone, snow began to fall again, filling in her footprints. Soon there was no sign that anyone had ever been there.
Oops, should be “Lara had always felt more Talgron than human” and “It was hard to imagine that this place had ever been beautiful”. *headdesk*
(I’m doing another, based on something I noticed in the prompt…)
I looked up at the sky. No stars, and I missed them. The thousands of lights, winking mysteriously. They made me wonder. Why, why why. Mom said I was always asking that, but the truth was the stars were.
But I suppose I can’t mourn the stars now. They’ll be back soon.
The noon sun shone down upon the small figure running toward the house.
A small blip, like a fleeting glint in the corner of an eye, landed on an asteroid so far away from home that it shocked the passenger. He stumbled out of the small ship, clutching his helmet, breathing slowly in order to counteract his heart, which felt as tough it might burst from his chest. The sounds of the crash had been loud, but now they echoed away into space. Everything was perfectly silent. The universe held its’ breath.
John slumped from the ladder onto the cold, hard rock that floated like it weighed nothing. His suit felt like it was going to collapse onto him, crush him. Wearily, he raised an arm, checking the gauge on his oxygen tank. Little less than seven minutes of air were flowing through his lungs.
Seven minutes to live.
Why had he left? A search to answer this question filled his mind. He had known that the small shuttle he had made, capable of carrying one man, was not ready to fly him to the moon. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his heart, he had expected it to fail. But never like this. He felt utterly deserted, alone, as his eyes slowly roamed the vast ocean of black ripples, each tiny star a small wink as it disappeared before his eyes. He might have reached out and touched one.
Six.
Each minute was 13 slow breaths, he counted them all. As he did, a memory surfaced to his brain. He and his son were lying together on the beach, the soft sand making small indents in their elbows on which they were perched, staring at the cold grains of sand that the ocean washed cleanly away. They were lying beneath the same sky he was looking into now, perhaps a bit altered, but still the same, pulsing like the human heart. It was still blue, and dark, and horribly beautiful. His son had asked him, “How many can you count?”
“Thousands,” he had answered. “There’s too many grains of sand to number, you know.”
“Can we try?” His little boy looked with bright and wondering eyes into the man’s own. And they tried, oh how they tried, but each golden speck slipped through their fingers like thoughts. Like breaths.
Five. Four.
With a small flick of his wrist, the man used his light gravity to push himself to his feet. He walked away from the silver pod, glinting sadly at him as though it were trying to say something. He had no use for it now. It could not be repaired. He would never return.
Three.
His wife was speaking to him, telling him something. He closed his eyes, heavily trying to forget that they might never again open. The heart enclosed within his ribs was pulsing more frequently now, as though it was determined to fulfill its’ purpose until forced to recognize the truth. Mary told him to sit, to rest, not to try his strength.
“Oh,” he suddenly said to himself, the words filling his helmet. The voice shot through him like a sharp pain, knowing that his words would be the last he would hear. With a dash and a bounding leap into the air, he landed on the ground, facing the moon which was bigger than ever now. It glared him in the face, looking so peaceful in a time that made him want to tear it into two. It was then that he screamed, a defiant yell, an echo of his past that only this wretched constellation could answer.
“WHY?” John screamed to the night. “WHY?”
The moon made no answer, only smiled and winked in the cold gaze of midnight.
Two.
He looked helplessly into the night as he collapsed to the ground at the end of the rock. He lay on his back, not able to get up and not remotely desiring to do so. Even the stars, whom he had reached to for some comfort what seemed like ages ago, were not staying to carry him into their oblivion. He felt to close to the heavens now. Would his journey to God take such a long time from here?
A tear, single and futile, rolled from the corner of his eyes and healed his frigid skin. Another followed it, then another, all in a line that was single and perfect, sticking close to his face. They were the last sign of life that he had. He had forgotten words, his memory wiped blank but for one. Mary stuck to his brain like a lifeline to the distant Earth, that would be snipped in a matter of moments.
Earth was, he realized, a beautiful place, despite the problems that occurred there. Everything was unimportant in this end. None of it mattered but the good. Pain was only momentary. Life was forever, even in this vast wasteland of empty sky.
One.
With his final oxygen, John opened his lips. He said three words, and with such conviction did he speak that he was sure, even though hope had left him, that his wife had heard him. He would not let it go unnoticed. It was too lovely to be ignored. The man’s voice, weak and ready to leave him, gave his last goodbye
“I love you.”
His face went very still, and became at last peaceful. The stars had heard him. One by one, they slowly disappeared.
She stood with her face and hands pressed to the window of the starship, watching the tiny marble that had been her home for so long swirl and shrink. Gone. Gone forever.
She felt a warm arm around her, and he said quietly, “It’s no use pining for Terra. There’s no way we can go back. The radiation levels alone would have killed us in-”
“Then we should have died!” she hissed, pushing away from him with a sob and turning her face to the wall. “It’s our planet, it’s not Terra, it’s Earth, it’s home! Can you understand that?”
“It’s not my fault,” his reply came, angry and impatient with her. “I didn’t invent the atom bomb, I didn’t turn the planet where we were born into so much cosmic ick. Do you know what it’s like down there right now? It’s not the planet you once new. Not a green and blue marble any more, see? You can’t go up on a grassy hill and starwatch with someone you love–the sky is starless now. No more nature hikes through the woods. No more curling up with a blanket in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace, a mug of hot chocolate in your hands. No more Christmas caroling in the open air. Get used to it!”
She turned back to the window, pressing her pale palms against it, watching the mushroom clouds erupt from the tiny green and blue marble that had been. Then it became one star among many, and her eyes could not focus on it any more and instead saw her reflection, wide-eyed and hopeless, her face the color of new snow. A sudden coldness at her side told her that he had left.
She whispered to the dying Terra below her, and to the reflection that stared at her from the window, “I think that I shall never see… a planet lovely, Earth, as thee…” Then her tears fogged up the window, and even the stars were gone.
Can I write on LBK’s suggestion ‘A pile of mail on a countertop’?
Wait till it comes up. (It’s going to be the next one, so save your idea.)
Going to that bookstore was a mistake in the first place. It was there that the book was purchased. The receipt in the back of the book, like a cheap book-mark, told that the book was purchased not even four hours ago.
The cover, seeming to be falling apart, untold hands passing it on throughout the ages with disrespect, with all but one word rubbed or scratched out, was at one time extremely ornate; such could be told by the hefty price tag, the beautifully hand-written pages, and the one remaining word on the cover that was so handsomly written by a gold pen. No-one with sone curiosity could walk by it without looking at it.
Mirror.
Also, next to the book, still open, was a very large cracked mirror, pieces all about, an upset chair on the floor, and a red candle, wax still slighty warm.
A missing persons report was filed, but they would never find him; the crucial pages were torn out hastily and he jammed them into his pocket before he left.
Only one person would know where he was; she was already waiting there for him.
Any comments or criticism?
Tucking in the sky
Camille and Kama ran out the front door of the school, their coats too light and their shoes too loose. They raced to the corner where Mom was going to pick them up, backpacks bouncing up and down.
“I win!†Kama gloated as he started shimmying up the street sign pole.
“No way!†Camille denied all charges, and surprised herself when she came up with a passable excuse. “It’s opposite day. I win.â€
“Ah, but this was a snail race, so I winâ€
“That’s lame.â€
“You’re lamer.â€
Camille fumed in her pink sneakers. Her feet were cold and wet in the shallow snow.
“Let me climb that pole.â€
“Sure, be my guest,†said Kama as he hung from the street sign. Camille shimmied up after him. He cold wind bit her hands and face.
“Is it always going to be this cold?â€
“Duh no. See those clouds rolling in? They’re like a big quilt that will hold in the sunlight and make the night warm. I hope so, anyways.â€
“And then I guess it’ll get rainy again and the snow will wash away.â€
“There’s the catch.â€
“I don’t like snow.â€
“You’d like it better if you wore your boots.â€
“They’re ugly.â€
“They’re just beautiful.†Kama said goofily.
“Keep rolling in clouds!†Camille hollered hopefully.
“Ask Mom to roll in.â€
“Roll in, Mom!â€
Kama got down from the street sign and crossed his fingers. Where was Mom, anyway? Camille came down after him. This corner was a wee bit tiresome on this cold and clear day. Suddenly, Kama dashed out into the middle of the street, squinted down the road, and dashed back.
“I see the car! I see the car!†he shouted, gesturing down the lane.
“Mom heard me.†Camille said proudly. Kama rolled his eyes as Mom stopped at the corner to drive them home.
Camille rested her head on her brother Kama’s shoulder. She felt the car vibrate as it revved up and the air from the heater growing warmer. Outside the window the clouds, dyed red in the sunset, were tucking in the sky. It was going to be a beautiful starless night.
The new house sat brightly, pretty in the sunlight. Across the street, the old farm sat squatly, waiting to be demolished. Coming down the sdiewalk, in front of the old farm, a pinched old man stopped in his tracks.
“I almost stepped on you… squashed you like a bug… pretty thing.” he mumbled, bending over to pick up the small item that was glinting lazily in the sunlight.
He turned it over and over in his hands, marveling at its shiny, reflective surface. His face turned toward the old house, tears coming to his eyes.
“My poor farm… they want you to go away. They want to take you away… make room for more of those, those redundant houses.” He said, angrily, and sadly. He looked back down at the tiny mirror in his palm, and made a silent wish.
—
Later that day, the Demolishing team came around to tare down the rickety farmhouse. They got out of their sparkling yellow trucks, and stared at the house. Or at least where they thought the farm should be.
All they ended up doing, was finding the old man, whispering to himself, chanting “evil mirror”, over and over. The mirror was gone.
—
“Mommy, look! I found a pretty little mirror! Can I keep it, so I can play with my dollies with it?” The mother nodded and herded her family in the car.
The mirror glowed, red.
I stared at the mirror. It wasn’t a normal mirror. It captivated you. I couldn’t turn away. All I saw was the mirror. Mirror. Mirror. The word echoed in my head, becoming nonsensical. Mirror. Mirror. I couldn’t move. I was transfixed. Forever.
I spent days staring at the mirror. I did eat, and go to school, but in my head, all there was was the mirror. All I thought of was the mirror. Nothing but the mirror mattered. Mirror. Mirror. When I went home, I stared at the mirror. It had stolen my soul. Mirror. Mirror. I didn’t do my homework, or went on the computer. All I did was stare at the mirror. I didn’t know why.
I grew up, staring at the mirror. I went to college, taking the mirror with me. I didn’t get a job, I just sat on the street, staring at the mirror. Mirror. Mirror. One day, everything changed.
I was walking, staring at the mirror. Someone jumped out me, trying to mug me. The mirror smashed on the ground. I realized how much of my life I had wasted. I ran. I just ran. I returned there, days later, to find the mirror shards. There was nothing. I remembered the mirror shards vanishing when I was mugged. I was free from the mirror. It had taken my life, and now I had taken it’s.
Crissy glanced in the mirror as she walked out to her date. It cracked as she adjusted her skirt, but Crissy didn’t care about luck. All she cared about was her totally hot crush who was smart and handsome. But, that night, her crush dumped her, her car got looted, and a fire broke out in her home. The firemen were unable to get there, due to a huge car accident that happened just as the mirror broke. When she finally got back to what used to be her home, she wandered about in a daze. She stepped on something hard. Looking down in surprise, Crissy gasped. The mirror was still there. It had survived the fire. It was damaged, but it had survived. The crack of the mirror breaking was the sound of Crissy’s own mind breaking.
Crissy was found the next morning, hung, dead, drained of blood, and holding something tightly. When the coroner pried her hands open, it was a piece. A piece of the mirror that had driven Crissy insane. A piece, which the coroner sent to the mirror factory. A piece, which was melted and remolded. A piece, which could be in your mirror.
Wow, that turned really morbid.
She stood next to me, dressed in the sweet baby-blue dress my mother had picked out the day before. “Clary?” she said, mispronouncing my name like she always did and leaning in towards the mirror. “Clary, ya ever think about mirrors?”
“No,” I replied, chuckling slightly at my little sister. “I never think about mirrors, only my hideous reflection that shows up in them. Why, do you think about them?”
“Yeah,” Mia said. She twisted around and gazed at the large satin bow that was tied around her waist. “What if mirrors lie? What if pictures lie? What if what we see in the mirror isn’t what we really look like? Wouldn’t that be scary, Clary?” Then she giggled at the accidental rhyme.
“Yeah, I guess that would be scary,” I agreed. I took Mia’s hand. “Come on. We’re going to be late for the party. It’s going to be fun!”
I think I forgot about what Mia said, until several days later, as I was sitting on my bed. I glanced across the room, and saw the familiar sullen face with the wide nose and dead eyes. I studied my reflection for so long that I began to wonder, seriously now: What if mirrors lie?
“Honey, look at what I found at the antique store. I thought it would look perfect here in your room.” my mother said.
“It’s fine I guess. Just leave it on the bed, and I’ll take care of it after I finish my homework.” I answered as she propped the mirror up on the mattress.
“The man at the store said it had some special qualities.” my mother said, turning around, leaving, closing the door behind her. I swear a heard her laugh, an evil, murderous laugh as she walked down to the kitchen where my little brother was no doubt raiding the fridge.
I finished my science homework, guessing on most of the answers. It was most likely my fault I didn’t know any of this, since I spend science class writing down song lyrics. I shoved my books into my overcrowded backpack, and tossed it into the open closet, which was already over flowing with junk.
What do I do with that mirror? I thought, noticing it, still lying on the bed. I pulled the mirror around to face me. I thought I saw a wisp of green smoke, but it was probably just my overactive imagination. Grabbing it and bringing it over to my closet was easy, but dropping it on the pile of junk was easier.
I got quickly into bed, and pulled the covers up to my chin, not bothering to take my outfit off. I was asleep in an instant.
—
I woke up, and it was mysteriously bright. Actually, it was just bright, it was white. Completely white, and across from me sat the mirror, gazing eerily at me with two, big, green eyes.
Like smoke.
((Why are all of the mirror stories so creepy?))
Queen Kathiel the Wicked made a pass across the mirror, his long, dramatic sleeves sweeping its perfect surface. “Mirror! Mirror! on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”
“I’m on the floor,” said the mirror sullenly.
Kathiel frowned. “What? Oh, no, we are not getting into this again-”
“I’m on the floor,” repeated the mirror. “A proper mirror would be hung up. On the wall. Like a real magic one. But noooo, you put me on the floor, and do your stupid gestures and your-”
“Shut up,” said Kathiel briskly. “Mirror. Mirror. On the, fine, the floor. Who’s the fairest in Ellinore?”
“Is that what this kingdom is called?” said the mirror with interest.
“No. It’s Ergion.”
“Then where’s Ellinore?”
“It’s in that mysterious place,” Kathiel said darkly, “where all the mirrors go who ask too many questions. Now shut up and tell me who’s the fairest of them all.”
The mirror pouted, insofar as a mirror can pout. It was mostly metaphysical. “It’s Whatsername. The one over in Florin. The one who, you know, was an ordinary farmgirl until that farm boy fell in love with her and then he went off and got attacked by that dread pirate guy and there was the guy with six fingers and the other guy with the sword-”
“Wrong story!” bellowed Queen Kathiel. “Who is the fairest in the land of Ergion?”
“Well, no need to be rude,” said the mirror sullenly. “In that case, I’d say it’s him, that magistrate in Beyonk. Fairest magistrate you’d ever find. Never misjudges a case.”
The Queen smiled calmly, steepled her fingers, sighed deeply, and screamed at the mirror, “Who is the prettiest female in this kingdom you ******!!!”
“Oh,” said the mirror. “Well, that girl who’s going to be born in a couple hundred years, whoo-ee, I’d-”
“Who is alive today,” Kathiel hissed.
“The baby who just-”
“Who is my age!”
“Oh,” said the mirror, with relief. “You. Most definitely you. You are the most beautiful female who is exactly your age.”
“That’s better,” said Kathiel with a grin like a shark, and snapped her fingers. The mirror went blank.
It relaxed as it heard her footsteps leaving the room, metaphysically putting its feet up on a chair. That was a close call, it thought. Lucky no one else was born on July 30, 1276, at 3:44 and 9 seconds in the morning, eh?
((Something mildly less depressing than my last one. I didn’t say it was happy, though. Feedback greatly appreciated.))
My face is fat, I have too many pimples, and my hair will not stop frizzing under any circumstances. Ugh. As much as I’m told that am a beautiful, empowered young lady, the mirror tells me that I should diet, find some make-up, and comb my hair.
I used to not care. I still don’t. At least that’s what I tell myself. After all, this shirt is only slightly more low cut than my old, comfy “Boringtown Middle School Concert Band” sweatshirt. And I still haven’t bothered to put on any make-up or even buy any, even if I managed to find some anti-acne goop to put on my face.
I look back in the mirror. Why are my lips so chapped? Why am I thinking this? Is it a boy? No, it can’t be a boy. I don’t even have a crush at the moment. Is it my friends? Last time I checked, they cared as little as me, even if they are naturally prettier. And please don’t tell me it’s the pressures of society. I stopped caring about society ages ago. It’s that mirror.
((What? No, this isn’t auto-biographical at all. And I’m not angsty at all these days.))
Hopefully this will be dark enough for your claim, Cat’s Eye. Funny story!
The Dark Mirror
The mirror’s surface suddenly and smoothly changed to black. Ripples of dark magic were spreading through the mirror’s surfice. Picking up the mirror, bringing it slowly and carefully upright, the darkness appeared to drip down slowly like cold rain-drops on a window, or hot tears down a face. The invisible wall stopping En from the other side of the mirror also dripped away, stuck to the dark energy.
Climbing cautiously in, the mirror grew larger, just large enough for En to fit. First some fingers carefully slid in; then, from a hand, to an arm, to the rest of En, a body completely vanished from our world.
En slowly walked across the mirrored room and went through the door, never looking back. A strange new world lay ahead: one with horrible monsters and great beasts; dark forests and grim caverns; and a black, churning sea, filled with untold horrors beneath its surface.
Pulling out the dark blade forged for this quest, this mythic blade which had been passed from each generation of this family to the next for thousands of years, but still as sharp as the day that it was created in the great mines of Satiora, En charged down the street, with a battle cry of tremendous power, as if posessed by a strange passion of life and war never felt before. And although the days were short and gray, and the nights even darker, En was the warior of destiny, with untold power in En’s body and fell blade alike.
Too bad that En was in the wrong parallel world.
(Note– En is used here as a gender-neutral name.)
Nice one. Cool little David Lubar-like story. Same goes for you, Cat’s Eye. Try as I may, I just can’t write all that well…
I wake up. I look in the mirror. I see myself. Is it me that I am seeing? I don’t seem to remember my looking so bruised. I widen my eyes. Now I remember: the argument, the fight, the stinging blow to the head, the hospital…
And the man looking for me.
((That’s actually a lot creepier than what I usually write. Sorry, Cat’s Eye.))
Next prompt, please?
A pile of mail on a countertop.
I sifted through all the junk mail on my counter. Advertisements, coupons, everything. I then came across one hand written letter. It was old, and I handled it carefully. There was no return address. I opened it.
“Please do not go to the mailbox tomorrow. I can’t send you anything else, but don’t go. If you do, then you will die.”
I threw it in the trash. The next morning, I went out to the mailbox. A truck zoomed by and hit me. I woke up in what I guessed was heaven. I found out that I could send one piece of mail to a loved one. I sent it to myself.
There was a pile of mail on the countertop. I gave it a poke with my spatula, and it toppled over. Now there were two piles of mail on the countertop. I opened the mail. Bills, bills, Health Care cancelation, a check.
Then a package. It was a strange package. It was a gold package, a square package, a small package. It was a guiet package. I shook the package. No sound.
I grabbed the scissors, and attacked the tape that was sealing the package. I opened the package. There was mail inside. A pile of mail in the package on the counter top. I opened the mail. Bills, bills, eviction notices, another check, car rental notice, library charges, that kind of stuff.
Another package. It was a strange package. It was a gold package, a square package, a tiny package, more tiny than the last. I shook it. The package clanked.
I grabbed the scissors from where I’d tossed them down, and attacked the sealent on the package. It flaked off on its own. I opened the package. There was an hourglass, covered in bubblewrap, and the sand was almost finished trickling through.
I pulled it out of the wrappings, and dropped it. The hourglass hit the ground. It cracked, the sand spilled out. I heard a wooshing sound, and my house was gone.
Not gone really, more like turned into a countertop, piled high with mail.
I was stuck in a pile of mail on the countertop.
Ah, the hourglass.
What? I had to!
Always look through the pile of mail on your countertop. You never know when something important is hidden within. And I’m not just talking about bills-and-taxes important. I’m talking about your-mother-has-been- kidnapped-by-aliens-that-look-like-small-roseate-lagomorphs-and-this-is-the-ransom-note important. Yes. That important.
.
.
Pity I didn’t check the mail before chucking it into the recycling bin that day. Then, I wouldn’t have needed to send out this very important message out. Probably wouldn’t have ended up in a small, cramped garbage chute coated in what seems to be hraka. Wouldn’t have needed to steal a hi-tech bunnifier, turn the mind control setting off, and use it on myself in a desperate attempt to infiltrate. And later, escape. Wouldn’t have been ‘recruited’ in the fight against bunny-kind in the first place, when those caking bunnies decided that no one could throw their ransom notes in the recycling without paying for it.
.
.
But I did, and now I have only one thing to say to you.
RUN!! THE BUNNIES ARE COMING!! Hurry, you might make it if you leave now.
Don’t worry about me. You won’t be able to tell me apart from them anyhow.
But if you want to try and rescue me anyway, this is what I look like: :idea:NOW RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES. EVEN MORE IMPORTANTLY, RUN FOR YOUR BRAINS, AND YOUR SENSE OF (IN) SANITY. I don’t have much time left, so
this is what you need to do—*bzrrp crackle sneep* *gurgle*We Are Bunny. You Will Be Assimilated. Do Not Listen to the Traitor. We Are Bunny...__________________
I have no excuses. *Prepares to be pied*
But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved The Bunnies.
Karla barely glanced at the mail these days. Nothing mattered anymore, what with all of her friends and family gone. She hated the fact that she, of all people, was immune to bunnifieying. She hated the stupid so-called “immortality drink” that turned you into a bunny. But since she was immune to bunnies, it had made her immortal and it had made her stop aging at 59. Karla didn’t even know why she bothered getting the mail. On a late Sunday afternoon, she went out to her mailbox, painted by her sister, Haley.
Ending1. As Karla sorted through the usual pile of bills, something caught her attention. It was a letter, but it wasn’t the fact that it was pink that had intrigued her, nor was it the fact that it was handwritten. Karla knew this stationary. It was her sisters, the one she used for special occasions. Karla started to read the letter.
Dear Karla,
At this point, I will probably be long gone. I’m sorry we had to leave so soon. You were always full of energy when we were alive. I just want you to know that I and our friends will never stop loving you, no matter where we go. But a dog will help with the sadness. It could never replace us, I know that, but when a dog looks at you, do you know what you see? Love and trust. That’s our love and trust that you will not die. We can be happy knowing that you are still alive. Love you.
Haley, and everyone else.
Ending 2. Karla tossed the mail onto the countertop and went in her room. She felt under the mattress and gripped something. Pulling it out, she checked to make sure the gun was loaded, then pointed it at her brain. The immortality drug made you live forever, unless something damaged your vital organ or organs. “I’ll finally be with you,” Karla whispered, then pulled the trigger. Collapsing to the floor, it’s a pity she didn’t sort through the mail. She might’ve found the letter that would make her stay alive.
Ending 3.As Karla sorted through the usual pile of bills, something caught her attention. It was a letter, but it wasn’t the fact that it was pink that had intrigued her, nor was it the fact that it was handwritten. Karla knew this stationary. It was her sisters, the one she used for special occasions. Karla opened the letter, and something sprang out and attached itself to her face. Karla wrestled with it until she pulled it off. It was an HPB. “Ha! You’ll never…..get….m-” Karla fell to the floor under the influence of a powerful anesthesia injected into the fake HPB. She woke up several hours later, none the wiser, but the HPBs had taken out the chemical that made he immune to bunnies. Karla opened her door…….
42- Nearly all the stories are depressing. Hm, there’s an idea for a prompt; A happy day.
(For Mirror)
I was walking along, kicking puddles, frowning as usual. Splash, splash, splash.
Klunk.
I looked down at the unexpected noise. Down below me was a small fragment of glass. No, more than that. A mirror. I bent down and picked it up, studying the face in it. My face, but it seemed somehow different. Better then my face, though I hated to admit it. The frown line between my eyes was gone, and the entire face was turned up in a smile.
I studied it hard for another moment, then stuffed it it my jean pocket. I resolved to turn my face into the one in the mirror, to smile and laugh more. I could use the mirror for incentive.
But though I smiled the rest of the day, at the end of the day I forgot about the mirror. I left it in the pocket where I’d stowed it, and when I took my laundry to the laundry room, the mirror rode in the pocket with it. Strangely, I forgot about the cause of my resolution, and never thought to look for it, though I always continued trying to smile. It was months before I remembered it.
When I did, it was only because I found it while searching for something in my parent’s room. It was lying under a dresser. I picked it up, and gazed at the face that had once been mine, the frowning unhappy one.
I left the mirror in my parent’s room. I did not need incentive.
For Pile of Letters
My sister and I peered through the window of the house next door. A week ago, a neighbor had lived there, seeming perfectly normal. But a week ago was the last time anybody had seen her. She’d left no notice, nothing. But we could see very little from the window. Her kitchen countertop, a pile of mail on it. We did not stay long.
We came back three days later, with a short ladder. Peering in, we discovered that the sun was shining on the mail, so we could see it well, better than anything else in the room. It was nothing special at first glance. A pile of ads, official envelopes. None of it was opened. It looked as though our neighbor had just taken in the mail, and left it on the countertop before leaving. Except for one thing.
One, single letter had been opened. Its envelope had fluttered to the floor beneath it. The letter it had contained lay on top of the stack. I wondered why it had been opened.
Our neighbor never came back. The house stayed there, growing older and older. The mailman stopped putting mail in the mailbox. Everybody forgot about it. Except me. Even years later, when I’d return home for Christmas, I always wondered about what made her leave. Why the contents of the single letter, for that was the only explanation that made sense, had sent her away from her home forever.
Could we do the paper with only a single word still legible after the city on?
I turned the key and entered my house, the familiar scents of mold and grubby little kids trickling into my nose. The house was empty. Of course it was, wasn’t it always? Paul and Mimi must be at school, and my foster-parents were who-knows-where. I threw my bag on the ground, slipped my jacket off of my shoulders and wandered into the kitchen. A pile of cream-coloured envelopes along with brightly-hued advertisements lay there on the countertop. Curious, I picked up the first letter, which was, oddly, addressed to me. I slid my finger along the edge of the flap, pried it open and removed a stiffly-folded white paper. As I began to read the letter, I was faintly aware of the pulse of my veins that slowly became more rapid. A cloud of black entered my filed of vision, and suddenly, there was no me. Consciousness left my body like a whiff of air onto a flame.
Dear Kharly,
How are you? We are fine, but mostly sorry. Can you forgive us? We needed for you to live a normal life, with Paul and Mimi. We loved you more than life itself, but it was our life that would have hurt you the most. One day you may understand, dearest. We love you.
–Mum and Daddy
I barely recall waking up, only knowing that the letter had been removed from my grasp. I never found it. The last memory of my life before, besides my siblings, wrenched away from me. I cried for the first time in years that night.
**
Well, that was sad. Also kind of poorly-written; I haven’t done any writing in a looong time.
Not bad, actually.
Thank you!
SFTDP– Yes, could the next prompt after the ruins one be the paper with the one word on it?
Hmm, I’m going to do the pile of mail on a countertop now.
I picked up a letter from the counter. It was addressed to me. Funny. Who would write an unemployed, unskilled writer? .
Gah, hit the wrong button.
I picked up a package from the counter. It was addressed to me. Funny. Who would write an unemployed writer?. I opened it, and found a note before stacks of books.
Dear (Smudged, I couldn't read it, but I assumed it was for me)
I know that this letter will arrive unexpectedly. I am writing, actually, from the future. Yes, it sounds impossible, but we have invented a way to send packages back to our past. I have become an adorer of your works, and have sent a collection of them, so you may see how famous they will become. These are books published in my era, and they are not fakes. I promise that you will live an illustrious life.
From,
A future fanatic.
I put down the letter, and picked up the books in the package. I didn’t recognize the title. Perhaps they had the wrong address I flipped them open. It had a copyright date. It said:
Copywright 2055, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
It was my name, on a book I had not written yet. Oh well. I thought. Instead of writing, I’ll just use these books My future was set. I barely needed to do anything.
Next prompt? Nobody seems to want to do “a pile of mail on the countertop” any more.
The new prompt is up now. Thanks for the reminder.
Thanks GAPAs!!!
___________________________
I walked home from the party. It was pretty crazy, with some spiked fruit punch. Needless to say, I went home early. Walking along 67th street, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I gripped my pepper spray and called, “Who’s there? I have pepper spray!” Another flicker, this time from the door way of a building. I felt something watching me, and I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was looking at an incredibly large and ornate temple. Somehow, it didn’t surprise me. I looked down at my hands. They were large, and well-worn.
“Abbas”
“Proh, meus parvulus! EGO have requiro vos!”
“Abbas , qua have vos been?”
“Ego have viator totus super orbis terrarum , quod totus super vicis. Orbis terrarum est valde interesting.”
“Will vos dico mihi totus super is?”
“Nimirum, Ierne- ” The scene flicked, and faded back to the streets. My hands were white again.
Later, I researched Loreni Town’s history. Apparently, it was built on an early American settlement, called the Nicaela. I clicked on the “Learn More!” link. A picture came up of the girl I’d seen the other night. The caption read, “Last princess of the Nicaela tribe.” Underneath that, was the last king of the tribe, Ulprus. It was the man I’d been last night.
HUH?????????????????
Before my story begins, I’d like to say something. My people live only when it is dark. We go to sleep when the sun is up. I didn’t know why, until a few years ago.
I was outside, and it was getting light. I was playing in the forum of the city with my friends. Everyone except me left. I was waiting to for my parents to pick me up. They didn’t come. I never found what happened to them. I sat there, waiting. The sun rose. I didn’t fall asleep. Suddenly, a light seemed to emanate from somewhere. Or everywhere. I could see clearly. It wasn’t dark.
The city around me seemed to age. The stone tiles of the forum cracked, and vines grew. Pillars and arches fell apart. I looked around me. Buildings were just ruins. Then, new ones sprang up in there place. I looked down at my hands. They were stone. I was a statue. People came out onto the forum. I could hear them talking, but not in the language I new. It was similar, but very different. Time passed quicker than normal, and the sun soon went down again for me.
The new buildings that had sprung up crumbled into ruins. My city’s buildings sprang up. My parents came to pick me up, and I left with them. They apologized for the long wait.
Every night now, I stare out my bedroom window. I feel my building crumble under me, and the new city pop up.
There are rumors floating about the Remembrance*, and they are spreading through the city, that our equilibrium had been built on top of one of the more famous Old Cities**. New York, that city from the Old Times***, had supposedly disappeared from the face of this Dimension during DWIV****. Some Members in the Remembrance have had deteriorating confidence that our position will soon be evicted from the Council*****. Nobody believes the rumors, though, except for us. We’ve been protesting the demolition of Old Cities for centuries, but there are too many people higher up in the Council.
“Tayit, stop daydreaming, we’re trying to talk to you!†Crellen said, snapping his fingers in my ear.
“Hm? Oh, right sorry. What were you saying?†I answered back, slightly aware that those of the rest of the people that had come to today’s meeting were staring at me.
“We were talking about what our next move would be. What the Capitol told us yesterday has taken a severe chunk out of most of the Members confidence, and we need a new strategy.†Crellen told me, whispering the last part so the rest of the Members wouldn’t be reminded of that… incident.
“Well, as we know, the fate of the remaining Old Cities is being determined later in the day tomorrow, and the outcome of that decision depends on what we do between now and then.†I announced to the group.
“You are welcome to back out if you feel that this will turn into DWV, or if you haven’t the strength after these past events. Now that this has been said, we need a plan of action. Do any of you want to suggest anything?†The group was quiet, but not a quiet that meant they had no ideas. It was a quiet that meant they were thinking.
“This will end up being DWV, I’m sure of it. We need to strike first, and we need to strike hard at the heart of this.†A Member in the back of the group said, and the arousing cheer was tremendous.
“That’s what I was thinking. We’ll strike the Council tonight.†I confirmed.
Another cheer rang out; it was our time.
______________________
*The Remembrance: A small group of protestant individuals who want the reign of the Council to end.
**Old Cities: The cities that existed before DWIV.
***Old Times: The times before DWIV.
****DWIV: Dimensional War Five.
*****The Council: The Council is the group that is the highest in power, and has rule over the Dimension.
Shouldn’t DWIV be Dimensional War Four? *picky*
Oops. Yeah. Sorry.
SFTDP if it is a double post. But there was a comment on here earlier at school. I think it was Cat’s Eye, and it was full of a bunch of random numbers (like 42s and things). It was really long, and it was all different fonts.
Was it really here, or was I hallucinating or something? Or are the school computers more messed up than I thought?
I have a new prompt, if anyone would like one:
Someone setting off into a new world.
I hate the city I live in.
The people, so sure they have the answer, so sure they’ve solved all our problems.
Hah.
They haven’t solved anything, just masked their failings, concealed the heartbreak.
And they have the presumption to call it progress. To call the ancient wonders foolish. There is no beauty in this life. There is no leisure. Nothing is as it once was.
Even the city is different. Built upon the ruins of the old one, upon pillars of glass with their roots in my beloved Arkallen. They claim to scorn all that is old, but in reality they have merely taken the beliefs that long, long ago, before the Crumbling, everybody had, and revived them. But not just revived them. Changed them, twisted them, warped them. And not for the better.
Someday things will change for the better. I wait until that day. For my death comes with the death of Arkallen, and that I still live is proof that Arkallen will someday awaken.
I need to write the rest of that story. Maybe the other side of it too… The side of the people who live in the new city. Hm.
I pace the streets at night, feeling deep in my bones and teeth the wailing of the ancient ghosts. The first steps are painful, exhausting, the struggle against the air, but slowly it becomes easier, and I am nearly gliding, past the phantom shapes that throng the pavement. They laugh, speak, sing–bartering for cloths and food and livestock–but I cannot hear them, and they cannot hear me. I am a shadow to them, as they are shadows to me. I am the wispy essence of a visitor to their city, and in my city I am no more than a husk, pacing the sidewalk smoothly and mechanically. The slightest noise calls me back to myself. I have learned to walk quietly, and choose the loneliest pathways, where I will encounter no one.
If I hover long enough, watching the ancient stones of their streets blend with the asphalt of the modern road, my world begins to fade away, and the phantoms gain color. I hear snatches of song and quick conversation in a long-dead language, and step towards the people, my own words of joy dancing on my lips, but the slam of a door in my city, the hiss of a cat, and the past retreats. I am left with an ache in my teeth and salt tears fresh on my cheeks.
A new prompt?
*agrees*
I came up with one:
A chessboard.
I have one too, a tree whose leaves are birds.
Mirror:
He jumped at the sudden appearance of another person, but laughed at himself as he realized it was his reflection. He was still a little scared, though, due to the location of the mirror. Most people don’t hang mirrors from trees and he hadn’t seen it from the other side of the tree. Well. It didn’t matter, really. He had to keep running until he reached the forest and safety. This clearing was sure footing for most anyone but only he knew the forest so well. Besides, he had allies there.
A pile of mail on the countertop:
Georgia was startled to see the letter at the top of today’s pile of mail. She knew that her poems garnered many fans and that these fans garnered letters so the stack in itself wasn’t unusual. This letter atop it, on the other hand, was. Its return address said “M. Evans, Ganymede”. So the mission to Ganymede was a success, then. At the time, it didn’t occur to her to question how the letter had gotten to her countertop or how it had done so more quickly.
A city whose streets are built on ancient ruins:
Elinor wandered out into the palimpsest of a town. It was filled with cities built on cities, brick upon ancient stone. She knew its streets held as many stories, as many secrets, as the books in her shop. Probably more. What she didn’t know was that she was about to discover one herself. Quite abruptly at that. One moment she was crossing the street, the next she found herself falling through what had once been the path beneath her. “So this is how Alice felt,” she thought to herself as she fell, “falling down that rabbit hole.”
Crumpled piece of paper w/ one word:
I held
the notepaper within my palm
and breathed in and out
in and out
in and out
and watched him.
Fingers running over
over and over
the single word
I scrawled upon it with
an inky blue pen.
And as I watched him
walk away
away
away
I glanced at the paper,
read its instructions,
and obeyed.
In and out
in and out
in and out
Breathe.
Note: At Yoko Ono’s art exhibit where she and John first met, Yoko slipped John a crumpled piece of paper that said “Breathe” on it. I did not know about this until after I wrote the poem. (Weird, huh?)
Mirror:
It lays in an attic, dusty and cracked, forgotten behind cardboard boxes and run-down furniture. The elaborate frame is faded and chipped; the ornate pink roses are as dust-colored as the little brown birds and the once-green leaves. It has been a long time since it hung on a wall somewhere, illuminated by candlelight and reflecting the pretty face of a romantic girl, who combed her hair and sang songs of true love. It has been a long time, too, since well-dressed men and women adjusted their hats in their reflections, and children played at Snow White . The silver backing has chipped, and its surface is mottled. Its cracks are old; seven times seven years they have been there. The reflects nothing now but the cardboard boxes in the pale light that streams in through the poorly-mended roof.
Poem Style okay?
A piece of paper,
A lonely clue,
To solve the mystery,
To finding you
A crumpled paper,
Ruined by ink
Yet, it is
The only link
The single word
Upon the page
Untouched by years
Unruined by age
Perhaps, someday
You I’ll find
A concept existent
In my mind
————————————————————————–
Makes no sense…
No, no, it is actually quite amazing. I love it, CTN!
Thank you.
“Suzy!” Jane yelled.
“What?” her annoying little sister called back.
“You spilled chocolate milk all over my letter!”
“Oops! Sorry!” Suzy gently picked up the soggy piece of paper and handed it to her. Only one word was legible, now. It was love, but that would have to do. After dinner, Jane stole a steak knife from the table and went to her room.
Jane was found dead, stabbed in the heart. Suicide. Next to her was a crumpled piece of paper, illegible except for a single word: love.
Wow, why do my stories always turn out so suicidal? I’ll write a happy poem now:
I wait, so patient
To see your face
I sit at the dock
In this one place
Where space and time
Are one and all
I wait, so patient
In my thin shawl
You sent me a page
That had one word
The word was “dock”
I am not deterred
If you show up
A tiny bit late
I don’t really mind
For I can wait
I love the poem.
Thanks. I live a very happy life, so the bad stuff has to come out somewhere.
Janet looks at her letter, proofreading it. Her tears have blurred all except one- Brother. She had no time to rewrite. Hopefully that one word would give him the meaning, that he was her brother and she still needed him, wanted to stay in touch. Tears fell from her eyes, blurring all the words but one. Brother.
—
Tears come unbidden
as I write to you
words run together
but I think it will do
one word remains
one word will speak
while my heart rains
pouring for you.
Touching… *loves*
Thanks!
You’re welcome!
Crumpled piece of paper:
I walked down the street. The rain poured down, and the overcast sky put an unpleasant feel to the day. A car drove past me, and splashed me with water. I stood, dripping wet. In the puddle on the sidewalk that the car had made, I saw a scrap of paper. It was soggy, and all the ink had run. I could barely make out one word.
Jason,
I stuffed it in my pocket, and continued walking down the street. How did that scrap of paper have my name on it? Could it be meant for me? No, that’s not possible. It has to be chance. Just chance. I found it floating in a puddle. Not by mail. Just chance. I was still creeped out by it though. I pulled it out of my pocket again. Turning it over, I saw the word on it had changed.
Wait.
“That’s creepy.” I thought aloud. Looking at the back again, to see if “Wait” was on the other side of “Jason”, I saw nothing. Turning it back, it had changed again.
Wake
I stared. I couldn’t be misreading it. I turned it over again.
Up.
I turned it again, but it just stayed on “Up”. Jason, wait. Wake up. Jason, wait. Wake up. Jason, wait. Wake up. The word echoed in my mind, over and over again. Is this a dream? Am I going mad? I threw the paper away, and ran home. Life continued as normal.
“It didn’t work, James.” The Sargent said to James. “He just ran home. He’s not telling anybody about it.”
“Might as well try and make the next subject escape their simulation.” James said. He pressed a button. They watched carefully, as you walk down a rainy street…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Slightly creepy. The next story here will be creepier!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alexa had just moved into her new home, with her parents. It was a large mansion, full of possibilities and secrets. In her attic, she came across a room with a large, full body mirror. She stared at it.
“Heh. I always liked mirrors.” She fixed her hair in front of it. Her reflection did nothing. “That’s odd.” She said. Suddenly, her reflection repeated what she did. It the leaned forwards and mouthed “That’s odd.”
“Whoa. That did not just happen.” The mirror imitated her, only a few seconds late. Freaked out, Alexa went through a long song and dance routine. The mirror did what she did, only a few seconds late. She stopped and stared. Her reflection leaned in at the same time.
“Ok, now the mirror’s back to normal.” The mirror was reflecting as normal. She waved her hand in front of it just to make sure. She looked away. Sure enough, it turned around with her. But, in the corner of her eye, she couldn’t see it for a second. She turned back. The mirror was acting normal. “That’s odd. I thought I saw my reflection disappear.” She smiled at the mirror. Suddenly, she saw her reflection mouth something. What? She thought, but not for very long.
“I’m free!” She heard herself say. She wasn’t doing it on purpose. She tried to shake her head, and clear herself of the strange feeling, but her reflection mouthed something, and jumped. “I’m free! I’m really free! Finally, out of that blasted mirror! I’ve escaped!” Alexa involuntarily looked around her. Her reflection had a look of joy on it’s face. But, it was not a happy joy it had a malicious tinge. She saw something strange. The only areas she could see… were areas one could see in the mirror. Her reflection, and her turned around. But once the reflection had turned, Alexa could move freely. The reflection turned back, and Alexa snapped into that position. The reflection (and Alexa, of course) gained a look of hatred and spite.
“You’re trapped in there, now!” The reflection leaned against the glass, and laughed. With Alexa. The reflection, with one vengeful look, went downstairs. Alexa, then saw, with horror, her mother coming up. But, something had changed about where Alexa was. She could see everything, but had no body. She saw her mother look at the mirror. It repeated just what she did. Her mother looked away. Alexa was back in the mirror.
Mom! She mouthed! No! Mom! Don’- She mouthed, before she lost her body, her shape again. The mirror began perfectly reflecting what her mother did. Alexa would have cried, but had no eyes to cry with. Her whole family would be stuck in the mirror. Forever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Like it?
i fell. SMASH! toto fell with me. “Toto, i don’t think we’re in oz anymore…
Our ancestors had been lost in the forests, almost about to give up hope when they came upon this forgotten city. Everything had been perfectly preserved: the streets were clean, the houses neat, the food stores full. The only thing missing were the people. They walked the perimeter of the city, hoping to find someone, either dead or alive, to prove that it had once been inhabited by people. Nothing inside the houses or buildings could provide a clue as to what their previous inhabitants had been like. The roads were deserted, the alleyways eerily quiet. Here, in the midst of the city, the birdsong from the forest could not be heard. It was perfectly isolated, cut off from any other civilisation – indeed, we had only been able to come across it by chance – and fully equipped with everything the people would ever need.
Work had started on improving the streets and structures. Widespread construction was taking place across the city – by the time they had finished, the city would be even more perfect than it was now. No one wanted to see the beautiful architecture of yesterday be replaced by anything modern – and the leaders had promised that every historical building and road (which meant everything) would be preserved. We are only going to improve it, not destroy it, they said, safely hidden inside the largest, grandest building of all. There were worries, but the people were so pleased that the city would be even better than before.
Steel and glass structures dominated the skyline. In the distance, the constant humming of bulldozers and cranes could be heard as they forced their way through the thick forest. There was not a single stone to be seen anywhere in the streets – concrete, metal, and plastic were everywhere. It had always been this way. No one could remember anything different. The leaders were taking charge as usual – in the same glass skyscraper that they had worked in for centuries. No one heard the mournful voices of our ancestors, crying for the wonderful city they had once lived in, trying to find their way through centuries of being ignored. Everything had been destroyed, everything had been covered up. Our ancestors’ were lost to history. Nobody would ever remember them or what they did. The beautiful, ancient city was gone and no one would ever know it had been there.
‘Daddy, has the sky always been purple?’ the little boy asked his father.
‘The sky isn’t supposed to be purple, son,’
‘Then why is it purple?’
‘I can remember a time when places still existed on Earth were you could gaze up into the night sky and it would be black, the darkest black you could ever imagine, and sprinkled with the shining light of thousands and thousands of stars.’ He was speaking more to himself than to his son.
‘What are stars, Daddy?’
‘Stars…stars are the most beautiful thing in the universe. They used to come out at night and fill the sky with their twinkling and dancing.’
‘You mean stars are things in the sky? Like clouds?’
‘No one can see them any more.’
‘You can’t?’ The little boy looked worried.
‘No, son,’ the father sighed. ‘The sky is always purple, thick with pollution from the lights and street lights of the cities. They’re so bright they block out any light from stars,’
‘So the stars are all gone because there’s too much light at night?’ the boy asked, confused.
‘The stars are still there, son. The stars are always there and will always be there. Perhaps in the future we will find a solution to all our problems and the Milky Way will appear once more in our skies. Until then, one can only imagine what they look like,’
‘Daddy, will you show me the stars one day?’
Prompt: a pile of mail on the countertop
The alarm clock rang loudly, its tinny beeping cutting through my peaceful dreams and forcing me awake. Groaning loudly, I reached over, turning it off, and lay on my bed, eyes open, for a few minutes. I reflected on the peace of the morning and quiet solitude of the bedroom. Throwing off my covers, I leapt out of bed, ready and prepared to start the day.
My first task was to collect the mail. There were five or six letters in the pile, nothing unusual. I dumped the envelopes by the coffee machine and turned to the frying pan. Breakfast would be scrambled eggs, I was feeling in a particularly good mood.
My eggs finished, I leaned back in my chair and stretched, yawning. I reached over to the pile of letters and sorted through them. A postcard from my cousin, who lived in France. A bill from the electricity company. A letter from my mother who was currently on vacation in the Solomon Islands. A package with the stationery set I had ordered two weeks ago. A shiny, metallic envelope with my name and address typed, squarish.
I frowned. That wasn’t right. What was this letter and what was it doing? Turning it over, I prepared to tear the envelope open but it wouldn’t work. There was instead what appeared to a sticker but had the words Fingerprint Scanner underneath it. Fingerprint scanner? I pressed my right thumb to the rectangle, it blinked green and released the envelope flap. I drew out a perfectly flat, faultless piece of paper with the same square font on it.
Dear Patron, [it read]
This is a formal invitation to the official Commemoration of the 100th Anniversary of the Second World War, sponsored by the governments of various nations (United Kingdom, Germany, France and the United States included) and to be held at the Auschwitz concentration camp memorial on September 2nd of this year. We would be delighted if you would be so glad as to attend. Details are attached on a separate sheaf of paper.
Cordially,
George Harrison
on behalf of
The Commemoration of the 100th Anniversary of the Second World War Committee
I stared at the letter. What? The 100th anniversary of World War II….that meant the letter was written in 2045. Hopelessly confused, I decided to cycle down to the local post office to inquire about the letter.
I pulled up to the building and left my bicycle at the side of the building. I entered the post office and asked the nearest official-looking person, ‘Excuse me, could you help me with something?’
He stared. ‘What do you want help with?’
‘I’m trying to identify where this letter was sent from,’ I gave him the envelope but was careful to keep the actual contents of the letter from him.
The postman scanned the envelope. ‘I really have no idea,’ he shrugged. ‘What are the contents of the invitation?’
‘Well,’ I said, making sure to choose my words correctly, ‘It’s an invitation to an event,’
‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Best thing for you to do would to be to actually go to the event, you know?’
‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘Thanks very much,’ I didn’t tell him that the event was supposed to be held 35 years from now. I supposed I would just go on September 2nd of this year.
September arrived, and a young lady was seen by several locals to be hovering around the entrance of the old Auschwitz concentration camp. They were curious as to where she had come from and what she wanted, but they let her hover. They didn’t stay to watch where she went. Why should they? It was her business.
Two days later, in her hometown, a woman was reported missing. It was discovered that she had travelled to Auschwitz three days before, but no one had heard of her since. She was gone, and nobody knew where she was.
There was a whole world behind the mirror, though the family didn’t know it.
Every day, they continued to live their normal lives, peaceful and undisturbed. The children went to school, the parents went to work, and all was well.
Until one day, the mirror collapsed and the worlds were connected. The last remaining barrier had been broken and the people of both dimensions were free to travel anywhere, in between or otherwise.
The creatures of the other world, behind the mirror in the nursery room, came first. They stole quietly through the shadowed passage, an ethereal corridor that was not entirely solid. Colours and shapes continually drifted throughout, entering and leaving as they pleased. It was in reality a long journey, but the creatures felt no sense of time as they floated through the strange hallway. They were too curious as to what lay on the other side to care about the journey there.
The silence, muffled in the cold of the afternoon, was broken by the first of the people to step out of the mirror – no, through the mirror (for it was no longer a solid piece of glass, but a shimmering curtain that was part of the air) – and take their first strides on the surface of this alternate dimension, the one we call Earth. They crept around the room, examining each human artefact, puzzled at the meaning of some of them. What, for instance, was this strange, frozen miniature human, cool to the touch and covered in gritty dust? What purpose did it serve? Why was it here?
The rest of the creatures followed behind, spilling out from the mirror frame until they covered the room, crawling over tables and shelves and overflowing into the carpeted hallway. Slowly, they overran the entire house; almost ever square metre of space was covered by at least two or three of them. When all the rooms were filled, they lay quietly, satisfied with their findings and reflecting on the many oddities of this new world.
When the family returned from school and work, respectively, they were startled to find the house swamped with these strange creatures. They seemed to come from the nursery room, pouring out from the small room in the hundreds. The parents and children made their way to the mirror, stepping over creatures and other objects that had been strewn across the floor. They stared at the strange mirror, transformed from its usual appearance, and tentatively reached out their hands to it. With a rough jerk, all four were pulled towards it, spiralling and turning upside down as they went in, or was it out?
The last thing the youngest child saw was her beloved china doll, lying on the carpet, broken in half.
What’s the current prompt?
A crumpled piece of paper, the ink run so much that you can only read one word, I believe.
Might I suggest a new prompt: a desert island?
Prompt: Crumpled piece of paper.
The attic was always a mysterious place.
I loved it. I would never understand it.
We never knew why the attic was left full of boxes and chests, when the rest of the house was empty. We never knew why the last owners did not bring those boxes. When I first went up to the attic, I discovered only a single set of footprints in the dust, leading to a box no larger than a dictionary. Nothing was left in that box, nothing but a single sheet of paper, and underneath it, a golden locket. The paper had once been a letter, but now it was so old, faded, that it was illegible. All except for one word.
memories
I wear the locket even now. It is empty, and has been since I found it. It has a meaning I shall never know.
We lived in that house for years. The attic was my favorite room, and I was constantly in it. Reading, drawing, dreaming.
I never opened another box.
In an attempt to revive this thread, I shall post a story.
Remember.
1,000 BC
Hahgra paced. When would his love, Ahrkba come? He saw his friend, Makod, running towards him. His spear was raised.
“Where Ahrkba? She come?” Hahgra asked.
Jakod stopped, rested for a while. “I sorry. Ahrkba dead. Cave in.”
Hahgra stopped breathing. He felt like he needed to cry.
Makod continued. “Left note. Destroyed, part can read.”
Hahgra nodded, and followed Makod in silence to the cave Ahrkba had kepts stores in. Gathering more information from Makod, he came to see that she had put stores away in the deepest pits. She heard a cave-in coming, and… wrote a final message on the wall.
Makod said “Go alone. I cry.” Hahgra walked into the cave alone, or it’s remnants. The roof had collapsed, he was just walking along rubble. He reached one destroyed standing wall. On it only one syllable was legible.
“Remember.”
And Hahgra cried.
79 A.D.
Honorificus sat in his leisure home in Rome. He was waiting for his wife, Araquintaine, to return from her vacation in Pompeii. The curtained entrance to his room shifted. He looked expectantly for Araquintaine, but it was only his friend Jasofucius.
“What are you doing here? Where is my wife?” Honorificus asked.
Masofucius was obviously tired from his journey, and waited a few seconds before responding. “I’m sorry. Vesuvius, the mountain on Pompeii… destroyed the town in a river of stone and fire. She couldn’t escape in time.”
Honorificus dropped the delicacy he was raising to his mouth.
Masofucius continued. “She gave me a note, to give to you. She knew I’d survive, but she got trapped. I’m afraid it got burned.” He rummaged through his carrying sack. As he did, Honorificus sat in a stunned silence, the world passing by him. Masofucius’s fumbling fingers gave him the note. Only one word was legible after the burns.
“Remember.”
And Honorificus cried.
1853 AD
Sir Harold sat in his study. His wife Allison had gone on a vacation months ago, to China, and had not come back yet. There was a knock on his door. Harold immediately went to tidying himself, and put his top hat on. He opened the door, but was depressed by the sight, not of his wife, but of Mason, an underling Allison took with her.
“Where is Lady Allison? I wish to see her.” Harold asked, tersley.
Mason answered quickly. “I’m very sorry, sir. I’m afraid her return ship encountered a few difficult waves… She is no longer with us.”
Harold stood, there, stunned. He nearly cried.
Mason kept talking, oblivious of his master’s obvious distress. “She threw a tied note to me on a lifeboat… it was waterlogged. Very little can be read.”
Sir Harold numbly took the note from Mason’s hand. One word could be read from the inky mess.
“Remember”
And Sir Harold cried.
2006 AD
Harry sat at his computer. When would his girlfriend Amanda email him? She had left for college, but he hadn’t heard from her. Which was odd, since she was one of those people who spent their lives on email. A 2 messages popped up. Neither were from Amanda, though. The first one was from his friend Mark, the other from his Macintosh. He absent mindedly clicked Mark’s message.
“hey man. i have some really awful news for you- amanda’s plane crashed. i’m sorry. ”
Harry stopped reading. He felt like he was blue screening. He read anyway.
“she sent me an email, i forwarded it. you should have gotten it.” Harry looked around his mail, but there were only two left. He clicked on the one from his Mac.
“You have recieved an email that may contain viruses. Only sections are readable. Do you wish to continue?”
Harry clicked yes, in a daze. He saw it was from Amanda’s email. Only one word was written.
“remember”
And Harry cried.
705063 AD
HFT55eD cruised through the massive data banks, himself just a ghostly imprint on electric signals. Where was his data partner, a45DfeeCC, with whom he created new programs? He sensed someone message him. It wasn’t a45DfeeCC, just his pal Mre991ffgh. He absentmindedly linked imprints with Mre991ffgh.
-Where’s a45DfeeCC?
-The data sector she was imprinted on was destroyed. Physically, unknown.
HFT55eD regained himself. That was why a45DfeeCC had not arrived. Their civilization had no way of detecting things that happened physically, they were simply conscious imprints on an immense system. Mre991ffgh relinked with HFT55eD.
-She sent an encoded data packet in your private key. Only a small section made it out of the destroyed data banks. I’ll message it into your mind.
HFT55eD received the data packet, and decoded it. Only one word could be extrapolated.
“Remember.â€
And HFT55eD, having no eyes to cry with, did.
This story literally made me cry. *is crying right now*
That’s amazing.
I have no physical choice but to point out: 1000 BC is two centuries after the Trojan War. Cavemen were long before that.
I think sometime in the 40,000 BCE to 10,000 BCE range would cover it. “Caveman” is stereotyped and vague, but that’s when hunter-gatherers were developing and whatnot.
Hmm, actually on second thought, that could be further refined. I’m not sure when written language developed to that point.
Sorry, I originally had it at 10,000 BC, then decided to put it forwards in time without checking the proper time.
I didn’t put them as “cavemen”, I never had them living in caves. I did read in the first Cartoon History Of The Universe (Written by our esteemed Larry Gonick) that they did use caves, though possibly not for living in.
F+H: Thanks! Writing it, felt like I didn’t go into enough detail. But that’s what short stories are about, I guess.
They look like cavemen.
(We’re having an argument that took place in H2G2.)
The lack of detail is what makes it so beautiful, I think.
Prompt: Crumpled piece of paper, etc. With apologies.
At the dull ringing of the bell, you grumblingly lift your head off the desk and reach down for your backpack. The plasma membrane has not been an entertaining subject. You blurrily enter the hallway. Approaching your locker you vaguely plan which books to grab. Just English, today. Avoiding the main stairs, you saunter outside to test the air. A bit chilly today. Pushing past the usual crowd you make your way into the gym and point your feet, groaning silently, towards the locker room. It’s Tuesday–that means running. The ground’s still a bit wet, but you know Coach will direct the class out to the track. In the locker room the familiar oaf blocks your way. You shove his backpack over and dully change into your gym clothes. (You should probably bring them home to be washed.) Coach forgets to tell the class to stretch, so you pace gloomily down the stairs to the track. Run straights, walk curves, run straights, walk curves. (Stay in lane 8, fudge the boundaries.) Hm, Ms. M’s class is jogging today as well. Clockwise, of course, purely to get in the way. Was it Ms. M’s class she was in? You scan the track ahead of you for a gray shirt. Yes, there she is. Walk straight, don’t breathe so hard. No, don’t look at her. Wait, did she glance at you? All right, now jog. Huh, it’s starting to rain again. And… there’s Coach’s whistle. Inside we go.
The oaf’s not here yet, so you more leisurely place your books in your backpack and get dressed. Whose idea was it to have a fitness week? Two days a week is plenty. Oh well, you don’t have to play “pickle ball”. Ms. M’s class is doing football this week. Every few minutes, the squeal of an amateur whistle. Run, walk, run, walk, run. You look for a gray shirt, but there are too many people on the field. Run, walk, run, walk. You wish the wind would stop–your eyes are watering. Run, walk, run. Ten more minutes. Run, walk. Hm, their class is done early. They’re blocking the track–they should be sitting in the bleachers. You move towards the center and keep jogging. Wait, there she is–beside the water fountain. Run.
Home. Dinner. Homework. Practice. Computer. Yearbook. Computer. Bed.
It’s only Thursday. Oh well. The Spanish test was easy–suspiciously easy. Hm, should that have been subjunctive? Oh well. You survey the cafeteria, divining that pizza would be quickest. The slices with pepperoni are small today–better grab cheese instead. Pay, find table. You glance around for Josh. He’s not here. Oh, wait, he had an IB meeting today. Ah, there’s Joe. You ask him how the Latin quiz went. Expectedly, he thinks he aced it. He studies too much. And here comes the rest of them. The conversation today is rather dull–making fun of Tim has become boring. He just makes it too easy. You wander your eyes towards the TV. “Too sexy for Sesame Street?” What a waste of news time. They could be reporting on a thousand more important things. Looking back towards your pizza, something catches your eye, something gray. She glances away hurriedly.
Finally Friday, and the last day of fitness week. You know it’s going to rain, but Coach doesn’t seem to mind. Two laps. Right on cue, you hear a grumble of thunder and feel a drop of rain, then another. Before you can glance towards the bleachers, the rain picks up speed. Hearing the whistle, you cut across the field instead of finishing the lap, as does everyone else. Being wet tends to be troublesome. As you approach the stairs you notice her. She hesitates, then hurries away towards the safety of the building. A small piece of white falls, blowing to the left in the increasing wind. You glance briefly behind yourself, then bend over and pick it up. It’s reached the point of crumpledness at which it feels more like fabric than paper. Delicately you unfold it as the rain pounds harder against your head. It’s written in purple ink that now seeps into the paper like watercolors. Of the three or four words you can uncertainly tell it said, you can read only the last: “you”. You walk inside the building.
I hereby declare this thread “alive”. Proposition for new prompt: a broken piece of ceramic half-buried in dirt.
Since there aren’t lots of comments on this thread, rather than create a new one, I’m bumping this one forward to the time at which you declared it “alive.” Maybe the earlier posts will inspire some ideas, particularly for those who may have missed previous rounds.
Thank you! That’s exactly what I had hoped would be done. But, um–unless I’m missing something (which is probable), it seems to be off by six days. I declared it alive on the 27th; it was bumped to the 21st.
</being_an_annoyance>
Oops, typo. *not annoyed, except at the typo*
Bumping this thread. I have three stories that I’m sorting through in my head, and I’ll write them once they’re more solidified.
Until then, a haiku based on my proposed prompt:
A broken old pot
Fed a young boy years ago
Now it marks his grave
((Thanks, GAPA!))
((Also, there’s a bit of a mishap in post 0. The left angle bracket from the </strong> tag around the current prompt was accidentally cut to the very end of the post. It’s been like that since the last time this thread was alive, I think.
(A starless sky prompt is kind of old now, but I just thought of this: )
A starless sky is
Day
What about the sun?
Also, why is this in the Recent Posts section?
We changed the thread’s time stamp to move it up near the top of the blog. Now the blog thinks it’s new.
Ack! How did I not think about that?
A starless sky
Day
With the sun
covered by a cloud
How’s that?
Well, it’s still there…A city built on the ruins of an ancient civilization:
They just kept building. Taller and taller, higher and higher, chasing the sky they could never reach. Fools, thinking to mask their deeds by striving to obtain something out of their reach. Though in all my years I have never seen a better way to run while staying put. Flee!, the wise called out. Flee before it is too late! But no. Fettered by their foolish pride, they remained. They thought they could escape into the clouds. Such antics would make me laugh, if only I remembered how.
But the time for that has passed long, long ago. Before those who preceded those who came before the ancestors of those who have long since been forgotten. I never forget. Let them laugh! Their time has almost come. The rain will wash away the earth covering the bones they repressed and found euphemisms for. The irrefutable, undeniable proof of the crimes they tried so hard to repress.
They were doing so well- they thought. Progressing so far- they thought. Considering themselves civilized. What a pretty little house of lies that will collapse around them.
It may not be here yet, but it’s coming. I feel it- menacing and intoxicating. They’ve already gone so far, but with one more little step- how insignificant it will seem then!- they will condemn themselves and their people. Not a step, strictly speaking- a shovelful of the rich earth they love to praise. First there will be heated debates. Then stagnation will set in and slowly, creeping up on them will come despair, spinning them into its spiderweb until they don’t know what it is to hope. Then suddenly, one or two will wake up and see the city become ruins around them. They’ll rally supporters and try to fight- they’ll fight each-other, of course, catering to the true enemy- themselves.
But some small group always remains until the invaders come from across the sea, just as they themselves once did, to be slaughtered in the streets as the sad remains of their city burn around them. There will be no survivors. The invaders will stay in this beautiful land, valuing the fertile soil and temperate climate. I give them two generations before the dust that was once the remains of their enemy has settled- and before they start building towers.
…somehow this didn’t turn out the way I wanted it too. Never mind, I’ll re-write it later.
A pile of mail on the countertop:
She wasn’t sure whether she should, or shouldn’t. The letter seemed to be a mile away, though it was only but a few short feet. Believing that that very piece of paper could take away all of her problems away, while also bringing them all back.
As time passed, bills and such covered that seemingly non-existant letter. It began to appear as if it had never been there. As if I had been lost in the wind, or carried away by the ocean and its never failing drift. “Oceans do have an end to them, don’t they?”, she thought to herself, “They may not have a specific stopping-point. They may seem to never end, but they do. They always do when you realize… When you realize that the ocean isn’t simply ‘the ocean’ “. Instead, it is an entity that is remains partially a mystery to this day.
Though she didn’t necessasarily view the letter on the refurbished end-table the way she viewed the ocean, she did agree that the two had one thing in common- they can cause the same emotions in people…
She very wearily picked-up the lovely, blue letter. Then, she very carringly took the letter from the envelope. It was blank… “What is this?”, she thought to herself. She began to shed tears… Wait. She felt something in the bottom of the envelope. Quickly wiping away tears from her face, she felt inside the envolope. She felt a small ring between the tips of her fingers. She wasn’t sure whether to pull the ring out, or simply let go of it. If she let go, she’d be letting go of herself. She pulled out the ring. It was an engagement-ring… She knew who its sender was, for she had seen this very ring before. She new what this meant; however, she had no intentions of admitting it to herself.
Before the War, she had been filled with such love and never- faultering compassion for the world she lived in. Then “he” recieved news that he would be stationed in Burma. He said he wouldn’t dare chance leaving this earth without saying a proper goodbye to her. The ring was his final goodbye.
(My apologies, everyone, I don’t believe I relayed this very well. Do go easy on me, please)
a broken piece of ceramic half-buried in dirt
__
I shifted my feet. Rocks crunched under them. Really reddish rocks. Well, that wouldn’t be so unusual then, since Petra was known as the rose-red city. …The rocks were still redder than the surrounding dirt, however. And…suspiciously curved?
Carefully, I leaned down to pick one up, my bag bumping against my side, my feet stumbling as my too-tired head processed the change in elevation. I examined the rock. It did look like ceramic, almost similar to the ones I’d seen in museums. Except, you know, those weren’t broken. And scattered all over the ground–way too many of them for just one piece of pottery. And why would historical pottery just be lying on the ground anyways? Wouldn’t it be buried or at least half-buried under dirt, not scattered atop the ground?
The pottery pieces probably weren’t that historical. Probably someone just broke their own dish or something here. Right. And they scattered all these stone around too, I thought, sparing them a narrow eyed glance. They were as suspiciously square and stacked as the pottery was suspiciously curved. And my father had, a long time ago when I was young, told me that these hills were where the Nabateans has lived, not in the canyon that held their elaborate funerary structures.
I shifted again to pick up another piece of pottery. No harm in not taking it, after all. The pieces went into the bag, which cut painfully into my shoulder. I resumed my zombie walk down the hill, concentrating only on one foot in front of the other, where there would eventually be shade, and a place where i could collapse dignified. I would not do that here, not in front of people, however few the random tourists and Bedouins trying to sell you stuff may be. Not without a place to sit, and not without respite form the burning heat Jordan’s noon sun placed on me. There would be time to examine the pottery in the bag later. Pity about the other rocks, but as entire tombs carved into solid rock were a bit too big to take home with me and I was too exhausted to go over there I would have to settle for a few pictures and not detailed examination as I would prefer. Really, why did I have to be so un-fit…?
a starless sky
——-
The sky in the city is starless. The sky in the city is empty. The sky in the city is not even a poetic black, it glows dull purple from all the reflected street lights. It looks like an old bruise. It’s ugly, and you can strain your eyes all you want, but you will never the Big Dipper or the North Star or Cassiopeia’s Throne or any of the other constellations that once guided weary travelers on their journeys. There is no reason to look up at the sky now, not when the stars are gone and the street is lit by golden lamplight and you can see where you’re headed perfectly. You know where you going, and how to get there, and in the city the hustle and bustle of life goes on without anyone, a single person, looking at the sky and wondering what lies beyond. Except for one person. One person may take the time to look up. They take their eyes of the road and the strict lines of the sidewalk dictating where you may and may not go and they look, but oh–they look in vain. There is nothing to see in this starless sky. The Milky Way is a dream, a candy bar. Even the moon is hazed over with pollution. And so that person goes on with their journey, not guided by the light of the stars but by the mundane. The banal. The desires of many men, stacked on top of each other so that they stifle what lies beneath. The street lights, showing all too clearly which parts of the city are safe and which are not.
And the traveler walks on, slightly disappointed, but knowing that there was never anything else in life except for the blank sky anyhow.
—–
OK, so I decided to post on a thread no one’s been on in ages because it came up when I typed writing into the search bar and suddenly I felt like writing. I’m not sorry for the double post. It was practically 3 years ago. I dunno, this feels like a good idea and it doesn’t require too much writing which is good because I get burnt out easily. So hello, metaphors about the stars being creativity and exploration and adventure and not the boringness of modern city life. I was sort of thinking of KaiYves’ arguments for space exploration when I wrote this, and also how horrible and test-driven and creativity-stifling the education system is.
Huh. Might try the ceramic shard.
The shard
.
I am in a generic Park
Of a generic Suburb
In a generic City
Within a generic State.
But everything is not so generic as it seems.
Looks can be deceiving, the quaintly wise saying goes.
And this place defies every community I have ever seen before.
Because it isn’t a community,
group,
gathering,
party,
or anything of the sort.
There are no people.
I linger as I meander through the deserted utopia,
pausing here and there,
to take in the unnatural to the point of illogical
perfection.
A lawn,
perfectly watered, lush, dense, thick and green.
A window,
looking into a page of a home “improvement” magazine.
Bristly rugs with cheesy statements,
providing a more ornamental use than it’s original purpose.
The lights are still on inside the dusky twilit houses,
former homes,
as if someone has just prepared a mouthwatering meal in the polished kitchen
just for you and your family.
As if.
I stumble,
over a small soil-coated mound
on the perfectly manicured trail
surrounding the carefully groomed lake.
The pain was somehow refreshing,
a way to take my mind of the imperfect grandeur before me,
a jolt back to an imperfect reality.
I excavate and examine the small knife-like shard.
It was about two inches long
and less than half of that wide.
I wonder, I thought, how did this get here?
Did someone smash their favorite work of pottery,
given by someone close,
in hatred?
Or was this the rebellion of a child,
Mommy’s expensive salad bowl That I Shouldn’t Ever Touch,
destroyed in defiance?
Was it left stranded here by the neglect and carelessness of someone unmotivated to take out the recycling,
and dumped out here to crack and splinter?
There had to be a reason to disturb this eerie, idyllic calm,
to disrupt the placid surface of a pristine pond,
to take a sliver off of a treasured stone.
Why?
Why do this?
But the sound escapes my lips as a Why NOT?
.
As I meander through the deserted utopia,
a thought forms.
I take the shard in my hand,
though I bleed,
and throw it at the spotless window.