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Writing Prompt Challenge (Post Here)

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#46 24moon100


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Posted 17 August 2013 - 12:23 PM

^^I loved H20! I used to watch it all the time! Great show. Sad it had to end.
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#47 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 17 August 2013 - 03:59 PM

I was devastatingly obsessed with H2O so that post made me all happy and nostalgic. :D It was such a fun show...

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#48 Jcrazy


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Posted 17 August 2013 - 11:50 PM

By the way, I still do plan on doing all the prompts, just on my own time :-)
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#49 BonkersBookworm78


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Posted 18 August 2013 - 03:52 AM

I might write something for a few more of the prompts when I get back.

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#50 Meg_Rulz


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Posted 18 August 2013 - 05:12 AM

Great!I am looking forward to read 'em!
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#51 Logan1949


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Posted 18 August 2013 - 09:59 AM

Hey babes. Miss me? I missed you all like hell. Alas, I was celebrating my birthday when I was struck with the realization that it's been around a whole year or more since I've been on. And we can't have that anymore.


Um I'm kind of a few years behind on everything about the MCMB so I'm just gonna go out on a limb here and post about one of the prompts.


I hope you're not supposed to post it on the prompt's day because it's not August 8th yet but oh well:


From the point of view of a flower (based on the Greek myth of Narcissus)  

. . .

Nikki, I noticed that you haven't posted any poetry since last year.  And I thought that I was the only one not posting for over a year.  I like your story from the viewpoint of the flower --- very imaginative.  Good luck with work & college, or whatever.

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#52 24moon100


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Posted 19 August 2013 - 11:59 PM

Another story is in the works. I've been busy lately so it might be a bit, but I plan to finish it before I go back to school. 


Just in case anyone cares. :P

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#53 Jcrazy


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Posted 20 August 2013 - 12:23 AM

YAY! :)
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#54 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 23 August 2013 - 08:39 AM

My goal is to get another one of these done today. I wanted to do at least three or four but...I've only done one. Lol. It's been fun reading everyone's, though!

Second thing: We should continue posting prompts on here. Like, post a September-October list or something, and then a November-December one, et cetera. I'd keep participating. Just a thought. :)
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#55 Jcrazy


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Posted 23 August 2013 - 09:57 AM

Yes YAY. We definitely should. I'll try to think of some more prompts.
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#56 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 23 August 2013 - 01:07 PM

^Awesome. :D I will look forward to all the new ones. It's really fun coming up with stuff for these.


So, uhh, I intended to write something really short (like 200 words) and it has spiraled into...over 2000 words. I think it will be at least 3000 in the end. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I hope to have it done by the end of the day.

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#57 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 23 August 2013 - 07:29 PM

I wrote this all today and I'm really proud of myself. The content part not so much, but the amount of words...yes. I have barely written a thing for the past two weeks, so it's nice to have a marathon day. I needed this, man.

I did some thinking about the prompts and couldn't quite decide what I wanted to do. I eventually came up with the road trip idea for the "end of the rainbow" prompt and HAD to write it. I've been doing quite a lot of roadtripping lately, so it seemed perfect. Roadtripping is near the top of my list of favorite things.

Most of this is just me thinking. It's not the best plot-wise or even character-wise, but I had a lot of fun writing it. I have been doing a lot of thinking lately, looking for my own "awakening," so there's a lot of personal stuff in here. And then some of it is hardly personal, too. Lol. It's just a giant mess...



-alternately titled-




It was the summer after my senior year of college, and I was as hopeless as they get. I still had no idea what exactly what I wanted to do with my life, because up until about two weeks before I finished school, it hadn’t seemed like much of a priority and I hadn’t given it much thought. College didn’t appeal to me—if there was one way to trap yourself in an inescapable box for the rest of your life, that was it. You spend all that time working to be good at one thing, to prepare for a job, and then you’re stuck doing the same thing your entire life. You’re in the box.  You go and waste years of your life just to be stuck in a box where you’ll eventually suffocate. No thanks.


My sister Kayla was the one who came up with the box analogy and made me so skeptical about even just the idea of going to college. She was always the “weird” one of the three of us—the freethinker, the artist, the visionary, whatever. She was a good four years older than me and lived away from home, but since she loved Seattle so much that it would be hard for her to leave the place, “away from home” really just meant on the other side of the city. Despite the age difference, the two of us had a much better relationship with each other than the one I had with my younger sister, who was just a year younger than me and liked to think she was something special. We might not have had all that much in common—I liked pop music and she liked folk; I liked action movies and she liked indies—but there was a mutual understanding between us, no matter what the situation. We were always on the same wavelength.


My parents weren’t all that happy with me for being so indecisive—if you can really even call it that—about my choices regarding “the Future.” They talked about “the Future” like it was some big, imposing deal that should keep me awake at night, but, really, I hadn’t lost any sleep over it. It didn’t concern me in the least, as much as they wanted it to. It wasn’t anything new; they’d been getting on Kayla’s case for this kind of thing for years. Kayla thrives on the abstract and the philosophical and always has these massive ideas that are hard for my parents to wrap their heads around, like the box analogy. My parents don’t know what she’s on about with that one, because they just accept everything the way it is. Kayla’s a skeptic and a thinker; my parents haven’t questioned the way things are once in their whole lives. I’m not sure I’m quite to the Kayla-level of skepticism, but I’m a hell of a lot better off than my parents.


Sometime in late June, after a long conversation with my parents about—not surprisingly—“the Future,” I called Kayla up. She was downtown at some obsolete coffee shop I’d never heard of, just the kind of place Kayla liked to hang around, and was pleased that I called to talk about this to her. I gave her the scoop, told her all about the latest idiocy I’d witnessed, stressed once again that I had no real plan for “the Future,” and hoped she’d have some more good advice for me, a wakeup call like the box analogy.


“I know what you need,” she said on the other end of the phone, speaking in that low, excited tone she uses whenever she has a good idea.




“Yeah. You need an awakening.”


Just what I was expecting—the typical Kayla oddness that makes her who she is. I used to laugh at it, back when I was twelve and understood her the way my parents do, but somewhere around freshman year I started to get it. It wasn’t nonsense—it wasn’t even all that weird. It was individual thinking, and it was beautiful.


But just because I thought it was beautiful didn’t mean I understood it. “Okay, you gotta explain. What do you mean by an ‘awakening’? Are you talking some kind of weird spiritual thing or—”


“Think of it like this, Sammy: You’re lost like you are, you’re just kind of floating there—like purgatory, you could say. You’re just existing for the sake of existing. No purpose no meaning—but you want a purpose. You want meaning. You need an awakening.”


It made sense, but I didn’t know how she planned to achieve that. Finding meaning and purpose wasn’t what I’d consider to be an easy task.


When I asked her about it, she continued, “Yeah, that’s the fun part. You need to get away from the negative thinking and all the stress Mom and Dad are putting on you. So. I’m thinking…road trip. To…I dunno—Chicago. I’ve always wanted to go to Chicago.” She paused, probably to take a sip of her coffee or tea or whatever she was drinking. “Yeah. Let’s go to Chicago. The Pilgrimage to Chicago. It’s got a title now—that means it’s gotta happen.”


I couldn’t convince Mom or Dad to let me go. They thought it would do the opposite of what Kayla had in mind, a distraction instead of an awakening. They wanted me to stay as far away from Kayla as possible; they seemed to think she was a bad influence on me, when that wasn’t true at all. I felt the best when I was with her, almost inspired—which wasn’t something I felt anytime else. I needed the time with her, the time away from them.


“You can’t let yourself just sit there,” Kayla insisted over the phone a couple days later. “If you let yourself sit there, you’re putting yourself in the box. I don’t care what they say. You’re coming with me. It’s the Pilgrimage, dammit. Mom and Dad can’t get in the way of that.”


At about two in the morning the next day, Kayla showed up, just like we’d planned, and we snuck off in her VW Van with the awful gas mileage and the dull green paint job. She’d bought the thing when she still lived with us, and Mom and Dad were horrified. As usual, their opinion had no influence on hers. She loved the thing. Still did.


“2,051 miles,” I whispered as we tiptoed down the stairs, all my bags in hand. “And that’s just the way there, without detours, which—knowing you—there will be plenty of.”


“4,102 miles and you’ve got some goddamn purpose in your life.” She held open the door for me. I thanked her with a nod. “It’s like we’re chasing the end of the rainbow. Jackpot at the end, baby.”


“So we’re leprechauns.”


“Not exactly. You see, leprechauns actually—”


“Not in the mood for Irish folklore lessons. But thanks. I get the picture, Kayla.”


We stopped in some small town, still in Washington. Kayla insisted that the place to do whatever we were doing and look for whatever it is we were looking for was a town like wherever we were. I wasn’t paying any attention to direction. That could be Kayla’s job. She was in charge of the operation; I was just the passenger. If she wanted to stop in an unknown small town in a desolate part of Washington, we stopped.


“I once read this book—I don’t remember the title or the characters or the storyline; I read too much to remember the unimportant parts like that. But I remember the idea. They lived in a small town like this one, where there are just a few hundred people and everyone knows everything about everyone and it seems hotter than anywhere else in the summer and colder and lonelier than anywhere else in winter.  And they hated it. They wanted to live in the city, because there’s this weird draw to the city that you can’t explain, you just feel it inside of you. There’s an appeal to the griminess and the filth that comes along with living in the city. That’s what I feel.”


When Kayla rants, you let her rant. You don’t interrupt. You don’t add in your thoughts. You sit all quiet and listen.


“But there’s beauty to the small town that they completely overlooked in the book. The small town is what makes America what it is. Lots of people think of the big cities when they hear the word ‘America’—New York, Chicago, LA, you know, et cetera— but just think. There are only so many cities you can visit, but there are so many small towns like this one, with so many people with so many stories that you could never know them all. And as much as I love Seattle—just cities in general, really—you can’t deny the beauty in that.”


“You read to way too much poetry.”


“I know.”


Kayla didn’t eat at chain restaurants, another one of what I like to call “Kayla Quirks.” After my basketball games, Mom would pick up some McDonalds, and while I’d be scarfing down a Big Mac, Kayla would eat nothing. She’d wait until we got home to eat anything. I thought it was a thing about not wanting to give corporations her money for a while, then some kind of health streak, then an attempt to fight against the mainstream, until I realized there was no point in trying to explain it. It was just Kayla being Kayla, and sometimes her motives are best left unexplained.


In the middle of nowhere there was a diner. Neither of us had heard of the place, which frightened me and excited her. The red neon sign declared it “Fred’s Diner,” and according to the sign on the dusty, unwashed door, they had really good bacon cheeseburgers. Naturally, I ordered the bacon cheeseburger while Kayla ordered chili. The waitress, Molly, spent more time staring at a portable television at the counter than attending to us or the other guy in the restaurant. The place was about the opposite of sanitary—especially the bathrooms—but the burger was much better than a Big Mac.


“Does it scare you to not have anything planned?” I asked her after a few more hours on the road.


She turned down the music—a folk CD she’d had on repeat all day—and asked, “What are you talking about? We have a beginning and an end. Isn’t that enough?”


“Wait, are you talking about the trip or…?”


Suddenly her eyes got wide. “Write that &$#%^& down. That’s good stuff right there. Yeah, yeah, I was talking about the trip, but...it’s bigger than that. Write. That. Down.”


“You’re such a nerd. It’s nice, but I’m not writing it down.”


“Sam! Write it down! I need to remember that!”


I dug in the glove compartment until I found the notebook she kept in there at all times. There was a pen nearby, so I took a moment to do what she asked. On a random page near the back, I wrote down her words so she wouldn’t forget it.


“This goes against your philosophy,” I reminded her.


“Which one?”


“The ‘if it’s really as good of an idea as you think it is, you shouldn’t have to write it down; it will stick in your head’ one.”


“I’m breaking my own rule—so what? Just write it down, Sammy.”


The first major detour was a trip to visit a waterfall Kayla really wanted to see. “It’s not a legitimate road trip without a few good detours,” she informed me as she drove. “Also, you’re driving after the waterfall. I need a few hours of sleep.”


I wasn’t nearly as impressed by the waterfall as Kayla. I’ve never been much of a nature person, and while I do sort of appreciate that kind of thing, there’s never anything remarkable about it to me. Kayla told me that I needed to get a better sense of appreciation for the beauty of the world, but I just tuned her out and did my own thing. It was a good mile-long downhill hike to get to the base of the waterfall. I’d enjoyed it because it was hardly strenuous, but the way back up was hard work. Concentrating on keeping myself going made for an easy distraction from Kayla’s rant about my lack of appreciation for the things she loved so much.


I took off my shoes when we got back to the green van and all its dusty glory. Driving barefoot wasn’t something I liked doing, but my feet hurt from the hike—Chuck Taylors weren’t my best choice, but I hadn’t thought of bringing anything else along with me—and it didn’t seem as if I had much of a choice.


Kayla took a seat in the passenger’s seat and pulled out a paper map from the glove box. Rather than using a GPS or her phone to navigate, Kayla liked to rely on maps. She thought they were pretty or symbolic of something—who knows what goes on in her brain most of the time. As I pulled out of the mostly empty parking lot, she started rattling off directions and street names and all sorts of things I couldn’t keep straight.


“Do you think I can remember any of that?” I cut her off, which was something I avoided doing with her because of how she reacted. On the rare occasion that I’d interrupt her, she would snap about not being able to think properly when people did that. Seeing as she was just mindlessly—using the term “mindlessly” in a loose fashion, as Kayla doesn’t really do anything without a ton of thought put into it—reading off things from a map, I didn’t see how she could get mad at me. It wasn’t like I was interrupting her creative process or getting in the way of her so-called poetry.


“If you really thought about it you could,” she pointed out. “But no, not really. I should probably spoon-feed it to you one…road…at…a…time.” She slowed down her speech for emphasis, to make me feel dumb, but it only made me laugh.


I made it half an hour into the same CD I’d been listening to for the entire day before I forced her to change it. When I insisted on something that wasn’t folk music (preferably not indie music or even alternative, for that matter) she told me I was out of luck. We’d always disagreed on music. All she had in her car were CDs—Kayla liked owning a “real, actual copy” of music as opposed to having a digital version—of artists I didn’t particularly care for.


“How about Oasis?” she suggested, going through her stash of CDs. “Everybody likes Oasis, right?”


Not me,” I reminded her.


“Okay. How about—wait, you said no folk music?”




“None at all?”


“You heard me right.”


Fine. How about some classic Foo Fighters? You like them, don’t you?”


I shrugged, staring at the expansive, empty highway ahead of us. The land around us was more nothing than it was something. “They’re okay. Not my favorite, but better than whatever you’ve been listening to all day.”


I didn’t know the words to any of the songs, but I knew the melody to most of them. Dad had always been a big Foo Fighters fan. He met Dave Grohl twice and was extremely saddened by the news that they were going on hiatus. I’d heard the record plenty of times but had never paid close attention to the words. Knowing how Kayla liked to listen to music—on a loop for hours at a time—I’d be getting to know them soon.




It was two days later, and I’d learned most of the words to most of the songs on the album. We were on the way through Montana, stopping in small towns and taking in the unusual things the country had to offer that I’d never really thought about. Kayla deemed “Learn to Fly” the theme of the Pilgrimage to Chicago, which was fitting enough. The number of times we’d listened to it was nearly uncountable by the third day of the trip, but somehow neither of us was sick of it. There was something about the song that made me feel like I had a meaning, even if I didn’t know what the meaning was. So we left the album on to repeat itself again and again like a mantra—our mantra.


I’d never traveled much, just around Washington a bit, down to Portland in Oregon for a concert or something once or twice. I never really got out of the bubble. Seattle and the area around it was all I knew. By the third day I was finally realizing how much I was missing out on. There was life outside my bubble—lots and lots of life that wasn’t so focused on “the Future.”


Kayla was always the brave one of the two of us. She liked to talk to the people we met, start up a conversation and tell them about the road trip—but, more importantly, listen to them talk. I would stand there and listen, not nearly as fascinated as Kayla but still interested enough not to walk away. She’d ask them questions about themselves, about how they were doing, about their life, about what they happened to be up to that day. At first I thought it was just another Kayla Quirk—she liked to talk so much that it made sense that she probably liked to hear other people ramble on about their own “important things.” Sometime during the fourth day I realized I was wrong. It wasn’t just a Kayla Quirk. There was more to it than that.


So I asked her about it. “Why do you even care, Kayla?”


“About what, Sammy? God knows why I care about half of the things I care about.”


“About the people. All those people you talk to when we’re out. You talk to them and ask them all those questions, and I just don’t get it. Why do you care what they have to say?”


We had a few more hours before we stopped for the night, so she made herself comfortable by putting her feet up on the dash. She looked in my direction—but not at me. She was only staring at the sunset. I liked the sunset. She liked the sunrise. There was a reason, unknown to me, behind why I liked the sunset better, probably something about the colors or some other insignificant reason. I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as thoughtful as her reason for liking the sunrise better.


“You see,” she said, carefully observing the sunset like an artist judging his subject before starting to paint, “it’s not that I care. It’s more like I…appreciate.”


“You’re so weird,” I replied, the inner-twelve-year-old who still didn’t understand Kayla taking over.


“Come on, Sam.” She ran a hand through her light brown hair. “It’s not weird. It’s what I’ve been telling you about for years.”


“Well. I must’ve missed something, because I have no memory of you ever going up to strangers and asking them personal questions like you’re some kind of game show host.”


“Not like that. Think about the bigger picture. It’s about individualism. It’s about thinking as your own person, and perspective. That’s the word I was looking for. Perspective. It’s like what I was kind of getting at the other day. You have all these nobodies in these nobody towns doing things nobodies do—and we do just what I just did. We dismiss them as nobodies. Think about it. You’ve got this ‘nobody’ that no one blinks an eye at simply because he’s a nobody—but inside that head you’ve got this person with a completely different outlook than everybody and his brother. Because he is an individual.”


She stopped talking, so I assumed she was waiting for me to say something. I didn’t really have anything to say. She’d said this so many times that I’d used up all my responses.


“Okay. Either you’re sick of me saying the same thing or you’re weirded out. Latter or former?”




“I know. Sorry. I just feel really passionate about some things. I know I talk a lot. Sorry. I just… There are some things that are really important to me. That’s one of them. I know the whole road trip thing is supposed to be about an awakening and purgatory and the end of the rainbow or whatever, but I feel like…there’s more. Know what I’m saying?”


“Yeah. Like the food. I came on this trip for the whole ‘awakening’ business—also to get away from Mom and Dad because they’ve been killing me lately—but so far, the food might be the best part. Who knew there was a world outside the Big Mac…”


“Really?” She just shook her head. “I hope you’re joking.”


“I am. Sort of.”


She punched my arm. “You better be. I’m not wasting all this time and money on you for nothing.”


Kayla had never been to Wisconsin and urgently told me she required a visit on either the way there or the way back. I hadn’t been all that impressed with the state—lots of trees, lots of corn fields, lots of farms. It was less boring than Minnesota, but not much of an improvement. When we stumbled across a carnival in a dusty little town called Dixonville, she forced me to pull over and spend at least an hour taking in the “small town ambiance” of the place.


The sun had nearly finished setting. The colors had been especially vibrant that particular night, so even though I wasn’t all that thrilled with Wisconsin, I did get to enjoy the sunset. Now that it was getting increasingly darker, all the rides were lit up in bright neon blues and reds and greens and yellows that blurred together when the rides whirred and spun around in that creaky way of theirs. Kids that ordinarily would’ve been tucked away in bed were out and enjoying the night. Their parents seemed to congregate in small circles to gossip or laugh or do whatever people in Dixonville, Wisconsin, do. We passed group after group of teenagers, each giving us strange looks. The town didn’t seem like one that got many visitors, so we probably stuck out in the crowd.


Kayla and I took a seat a table next to a group of four boys and two girls who were definitely locals. We indulged in a funnel cake and watched the people around us. The boys kept flirting with one of the girls, whose name was Emilie, while the other girl whose name I didn’t ever hear just sat and watched. A little boy puked after he came off the Zipper and his mom wasn’t too happy with him. A dad and his daughter, who couldn’t have been older than six, rode one of the spinning rides at least five times. One guy managed to bring about seven beers in one trip over to a group of his friends. Some obnoxious kid wouldn’t stop singing along with a song on the radio. Everyone either greeted each other like friends or ignored each other’s presence entirely. Aside from a couple sideways glances, we went by completely unnoticed by the crowd.


“You gonna talk to any of them?” I asked Kayla as she finished licking powdered sugar off her fingers.


She shook her head. “Not tonight, Sammy. I’m just here to watch tonight. Sometimes you have to do that. Sit back and take it all in, because you’re not going to get another experience remotely similar to this any time soon.”


We made it to Chicago the next day. I made Kayla drive through the traffic, because even though I’m used to city driving, Seattle traffic’s a bit different than Chicago traffic. She didn’t seem to mind it—in fact, she almost seemed to like it. As much as we’d enjoyed our tour of small town America, it was refreshing to get back in the city.


“How long do you plan on staying here?” I asked as we drove down some far less crowded side street.


“As long as it takes.”




“Well, we’ve completed the Pilgrimage part to the trip—unless you count the whole drive back to Seattle. Then we’ve got quite a ways to go. Anyway. That leaves the awakening part of the trip. You have any eye-opening eureka-moments lately? Or are you still lost?”


I shrugged. “I dunno. I still feel like I’ve got no purpose, so…I guess not.”


Kayla shook her head to herself, her eyes still on the road. “Damn. I’ve had my own awakening on this trip and I’m not even the one who needs it. How dumb is that?”


“Really dumb,” I confirmed. “If you don’t mind me asking…what was your awakening?”


“Can’t really explain it. I just feel changed. I think I got a few things sorted out in my head, some stuff I was thinking about back home. I feel…better. Know what I mean?”


“Nope.” And that was the truth.


We ended up staying in Chicago for a week. Kayla dragged me along to all kinds of places she’d dreamed of going, most of which weren’t all that thrilling to me but were cool to see simply to be able to say “I’ve been there” in future conversations. She about had a mental breakdown in front of van Gogh’s “Bedroom in Arles” painting at the Art Institute, which was as embarrassing as it was weird. When I asked her what the big deal was, she told me, “I just really love van Gogh. That’s all.” She took me to lots of weird restaurants and places I’d never heard of, like she was some kind of tour guide. I didn’t know how she possibly knew about all the places, but I didn’t bother to ask, because she’s Kayla. Who knows what she’s up to half the time, anyway?


Throughout our week-long stay, she didn’t take a single picture of anything, because that’s one of her Kayla Quirks. No pictures—it’s always better solidly in memory as opposed to in picture or video or writing. I didn’t take any either, because I thought it was an interesting idea and I didn’t want to risk pissing her off.


I couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad when I said I hadn’t had some great epiphany over the last week or in the driving before it. She didn’t understand how I couldn’t have had an awakening with all the incredible inspiration around me, but she didn’t want to force it. She wanted it to happen on its own, so we left. We hit the road, Seattle-bound, and made our way across the country a second time.


Our outlook was a bit different this time. There were fewer detours and fewer stops in small towns to talk to strangers about their lives. There was less of the Foo Fighters and more of her folk music. I enjoyed it—just in a different way. It was a different kind of trip. Kayla seemed to have given up. The end of the rainbow wasn’t that great after all. I was still just floating there, no purpose, no meaning, no idea what I was going to do with my life.


It wasn’t any different when I got home. Kayla seemed disappointed that I hadn’t gotten it together and figured anything out.


“You didn’t have an awakening, huh, Sammy?” she asked. We were sitting in that same coffee shop I’d called her in a few weeks back, her drinking some weird tea I’d never heard of and me drinking “just water,” as I’d ordered it. It was just her kind of place—quiet, a little dingy, and right in the middle of the city.


“Nope,” I replied. “Not at all. I feel like the same person I was when I called you about this before.”




“Yeah. No different.”


She leaned back in her chair. I was expecting some long, deep speech about her disappointment or her understand or whatever it was she was feeling, but instead she only said, “Okay.”


I raised my eyebrows. “Okay?”


“Yeah. Okay. Got a problem with it?”


“No. I just…wasn’t expecting it. Usually you have something to say about this kind of thing.”


“Yeah, and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes—no, sorry, not going to go on a rant about not ranting. Feels kind of wrong, if you ask me.”


I still didn’t know what to say. “You’re the one who got me into this, Kayla. You made me think I was gonna have some revelation about something, and I’ve got nothing. So what now? I just keep on doing…this?”


Rubbing her eyes, she replied, “Well, yeah. Sometimes you’ve gotta let yourself float and be lost and just wait. It’ll come eventually. You can’t force it or just expect it to happen. Inspiration’s spontaneous, Sammy. It comes when you least expect it. So just chill out.”


I wasn’t sure if I was angry at her or I was good with what she was saying. Something about it seemed slightly hypocritical. “So you drag me on this ‘pilgrimage’ to have an ‘awakening,’ and then you say the only time you can have a said awakening is when you’re not seeking it out. What the hell, Kayla?”


She shrugged. “I kind of just wanted to go on a road trip with you. But, hey, the whole ‘awakening’ ploy seemed to work. Got you to come along with me. And it was a good distraction for you. Distraction can be a very healthy thing. Consider it a favor, Sam. I won’t even expect you to pay me back.”



For anyone interested, here's a look at some of my inspiration/references in this. It's long. Sorry. I felt like I had to write it, though, so here:

-I kind of based Kayla on myself, but she's MUCH more eccentric. We're in the same ballpark personality-wise. Sam was easy to write, but Kayla was a joy to write. That's a personality-type I haven't delved into very often, so it was cool to do some stuff with it.

-The musical inspiration for this is "Photosynthesis" by Frank Turner. The box analogy will make a lot of sense with that song.

-Although I also have two sisters, my sisters aren't really like the ones in the story. Just putting that out there. Lots of this is based on real life, but not that part. Lol.

-Seattle is, like, my dream city, so that's why they're from there. We went on a road trip from Wisconsin to Seattle a few years back, so they're BASICALLY doing the opposite of that (except they're going to Chicago, which is CLOSE ENOUGH to Wisconsin :P).

-There's a LOT of inspiration from Supernatural in this (like the fact that Kayla calls her Sammy, they're on this giant road trip--and the whole "purgatory" thing is a shoutout to it, too :)). I sort of wanted to write a road trip novel before I got into SPN, and the urge really increased once the obsession started. I guess a short story shall suffice (for now).

-I want to go roadtripping in a VW Van SO BADLY. I have always found those cars to be really artsy, so, naturally, I incorporated it.

-I currently have this folk music obsession (mostly The Head and the Heart & Frank Turner), so that's why there's so much talk of folk music. Lol. When I write random stuff like this, my obsessions ALWAYS work their way into it...

-I was biking in this nearby small town and had this wave of inspiration come over me, where I needed to write about small towns across America. This was the perfect way to do it.

-I wrote a good fifty pages of a novel last summer that included a diner in the middle of nowhere in Northwestern America with a waitress named Molly who sat and watched the portable television (a DCfC reference, by the way) all the time. So it's not just random. I'm referencing myself again. Lol.

-Yep. I made them stop in Wisconsin, haha. How could I not? Also, I referenced my other short story big time. This should take place a week or two before the incident that takes place in that one. Oooh. Yeah. I'm lame. Sorry. (I also just read a scene that takes place at a fair like that in "The Passage" by Justin Cronin which I am enjoying SO MUCH, so...it's also referencing that. Heh.)

-YES I THREW IN VAN GOGH. I don't think you understand: I. Freaking. Love. Van Gogh. I did a ton of reading on him this year and it was possibly the most enjoyable reading I have ever done (for school, but also outside of it, too, I guess…). I got to see the “Bedroom in Arles” painting at the Art Institute BEFORE I gave a crap about van Gogh, and while that's cool, I want to go see it and have an emotional breakdown in front of it like Kayla now that I DO give a crap about van Gogh...

Okay. That’s all. :D

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#58 Jcrazy


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Posted 23 August 2013 - 08:54 PM

Oh my God that was so good, Artemis! I loved it. She actually reminded me of myself in someways. "the future" is important to me, but I've never felt as concerned about it as most people do up until recently. What a pilgrimage it was haha.

You've inspired me :) I definitely want to write another one now.
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#59 Meg_Rulz


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Posted 23 August 2013 - 11:53 PM

That was sooo good! I sorta liked Kayla! 

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#60 Logan1949


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Posted 25 August 2013 - 02:44 PM

My first memory.


Ours was the first family to live in the ranch-style house at 15120 (that's one-five-one-two-oh) Ragus Street in La Puente, California.  I remember standing on the blacktop (asphalt) driveway on a sunny day, looking up at the black numbers nailed to the fake white shutter beside the kitchen window (which was toward the right end of the house).  That was the day I committed the address to memory.  And yes, the street Ragus is sugar spelled backward.  In my little head, I later wondered if so many new streets were being made that people just ran out of names to call them and started spelling things backward.


I know we were the first family to live there because we visited the place as it was being built.  The two-by-four framing was set on a concrete slab.  I crossed through this skinny forest of studs from the front, and leaned out between the studs in the back and looked around.  To the left, behind one of the next framed houses over, a crew of three men in white overalls stood around a 55-gallon drum.  They may have been eating lunch.  My adult mind tells me they were probably 100 feet away, since the houses were set on 100-foot wide lots, but my childhood memory remembers them as two houses down and about two or three inches tall (at arms length).  For no reason whatsoever, I pulled my slingshot out of my back pocket and shot a small stone (1 inch) in their direction.  To my surprise, it hit one of the men in the backside with a whack and he turned around and shook his fist at me.  I quickly ducked back through the framing and left the premises.  Who knew that when you slingshot a stone toward people, it might actually hit someone.


I started grade school in that house, but that cannot be my first memory.  We lived in the right half of a duplex before that.  Ah, the duplex.  Family history tells that the Murphy-bed (which pulls down from the wall in the front room, two steps inside the front door), where my parents slept at first, was exactly one sheet of sound-conducting plywood away from the Murphy-bed in the other half of the duplex, where another family lived.  Apparently this lack of audio privacy was not appreciated by the adults in each family.  I think we kids ended up sleeping in the living room sometime later.  I remember lying in that bed and dropping a fever thermometer on the floor, where it shattered, the mercury drops rolling out onto the dark brown strips of wooden flooring.


My memories of the duplex are brown.  The inside was tan and brown, and the grass outside was dry and brown.  I stepped out the back door one summer's day, letting the screen door squeak and slam shut behind me, and I smelled a pile of dead (and rotting?) grass a few yards away.  At that moment the thought came into my mind, that I could remember this, with this smell, forever.  Ever since then, on those rare occasions when I smell dried, cut grass, I still remember standing on those back steps, smelling that drying grass, the sun filtered through the sparse leaves of a neighbors tree.


My father had recently returned from Korea (Courtesy of the National Guard and the "Korean Conflict") when we lived in the duplex.  He sprang two new commands on us during this time, Ediowa (sp?) and Eema (sp?).  One of them meant "come here!" and the other meant "now!". I don't remember which was which.  My father, having gone through WWII and Korea as a sergeant in the army (artillery), was more of a commanding person than a comforting personality.  I started kindergarten while living in the duplex.  I learned to tie my shoes on the front porch there.  My cousin Carolyn (10 years older) taught me to skip in that living room (with the bed folded into the wall).  And my mother told me the difference between my right hand and my left hand, while she was mopping the kitchen floor there.


But these are not my very first memories.  I remember two things before the duplex.  The first was looking out an upstairs window.  There was a window seat next to the window and the woodwork around the window was painted a light blue.  Looking out, I could see a tree which may have overhung the street below.  The second memory I have is of seeing the soldiers (in green) and sailors (in black) coming down the gangplank from large gray ships.  They were each carrying a large duffle-bag.


Family history tells that while my father was in Korea, my mother and I lived at the home of my uncle Guy (my father's brother) and his wife Betty (my mother's cousin).  Their children Corky (Cordell) and Cookie (Carolyn) were about 12-14 years old.  My younger brother, Chris (Leighton Christopher) was born during this time.  My father first saw him when he returned from Korea.  Chris was already 18 months old by that time;  I would have been about 3 1/2 years then.  My memory of looking out that window was at Guy's house.  And my memory of the soldiers and sailors coming off of the ships was when Guy took us to meet my Dad, returning from Korea.

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#61 Jcrazy


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Posted 29 September 2013 - 07:42 PM

So, Artemis and I wanted more writing prompts, so we put together some more writing prompts! :D There's no dates...no order...just prompts for you write and read whenever you want. 

Make a list of things that annoy you

Get someone to write for you, pretending they are you (We could all do this for each other)

Fan fiction of each others stories (ask, I guess :P )

A guide on how to survive the zombie apocalypse

A sketchy ad in the Classifieds


Your character goes out for dinner on a date and becomes attracted to the waiter or waitress. 

“I’d wish you a Happy New Year, but I have a feeling it would be a little inappropriate at a murder scene.”

"And the only solution was to stand and fight." 

Bullet your day. 

That awkward moment when your digging a hole to hide a body and you find another body. 

Your character wakes up in the hospital. Tell the story of how they got there. 

Write the same scene from three people's perspectives. 

Write a scene that starts at a funeral and ends at a car dealership. Or vice versa. 
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#62 BonkersBookworm78


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Posted 30 September 2013 - 02:48 PM

They are brilliant prompts, I mean they could be really interesting.

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#63 Jcrazy


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Posted 30 September 2013 - 03:39 PM

I know! Haha :) I've already started one for the "your characters goes on a date and gets attracted to the waiter/the waitress."
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#64 Jcrazy


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Posted 15 October 2013 - 06:52 PM

"Your character wakes up in the hospital. Tell the story of how they got there."

"He looks dead, Doc." Voice...so...loud.

"I can assure you he's alive." Another one.

"I'm glad he's alive, 'cause I'm gonna kill him."

"I can't condone that."

"Murfgrrrrughhhh." I think that was me...?

"He's waking up, Doc. You might wanna leave if you're morally opposed to murder."

"I'll take a caffeine break and be back in ten, yeah?"

"Good man."

A second later—or maybe a minute, or thirty—I manage to pry my eyelids open, only to immediately close them when bright white light blinds me. It sends a shockwave to my head and it's pounding with something that feels like the worst hangover of all time.

"Am...I....dead...?" My voice is hoarse and I suddenly realize how thirsty I am.

"Not yet," the voice says again.

After some serious consideration about if I would be left blinded or not, I slowly blink my eyes open. The scene in front of me is blurry, but I eventually manage to zero in my fuzzy vision on the person in front of me, realizing that it's Lane.

"Am I...am I..." Where are my words?

"You're alive, alright, shithead?" Lane starts pacing the room and I find it much more difficult to keep focused on him. "I should definitely kill you though."

It is at this moment that I realize Lane is wearing a suit, oddly spotted with bright colors. He also has a brace on his right hand. My gaze wanders to the IV I'm hooked up to. I blink, shaking my head, but immediately stop when I realize that makes the pounding sensation even worse.

"What the hell?" There. A sentence. Sort of.

"Patrick." Lane braces his hands on the edge of the hospital bed as he comes to a stop. "Do you remember what you did last night?"

I squint my eyes at him. What I did? What could I have done? The last thing I remember is...—wait.

Oh, s.hit.


"Is there an open bar?"

I waited patiently for a reply from Lane as I opened the door to the fridge, grabbing a beer with my free hand. The answer to his question would ultimately determine my response to his initial question, which had been, "Will you be my plus one to Sherry and Josh's wedding?" Maybe it was wrong to base life decisions on the presence of alcohol, but hell. I'd had a shitty day.

"I'm pretty sure," he said, in reply to my possible-future-alcoholic-anonymous-member question.

I hummed. "That's really not good enough, buddy. Plus, it's freaky as it is being a guys plus one. Why don't you ask a girl?"

"Well, I was supposed to take Karen..."

"Enough said. I got you."

Karen had been my girlfriend first. A three year affair during my college years that ended with a declined proposal and a string of month-long hangovers. Two years after I had graduated and met Lane, he showed up to my place one night with a girl he had taken out a few times. Shocker! It was Karen.

There had been an awkward oh-it's-the-girl-who-broke-my-heart and an even more awkward oh-it's-the-guy-who-proposed-to-me-while-stoned-at-a-college-football-game. Lane, for the most part, was just embarrassed and asked me privately if he needed to break up with her. Me, being the bigger person and awesome best friend that I was, said of course not.

Two years down the road, they were still together. Until the previous week, that is, when Lane walked in on Karen and their apartments maintenance guy getting up close and personal on the "broken" washer.

Needless to say, Karen had screwed with both of us and was on our if-The-Purge-happens list.

"Awesome. Wedding's at seven. I'll come grab you around six?"

"Gee. I dunno, Lane. You gonna bring me a corsage too?"

I heard a dead line after that and dropped my phone to the couch, shrugging. Realizing the beer I had been nursing was getting low, I glanced to the clock on my apartments wall and saw it was 4. I had some time to kill.

Somehow I managed to drink all the beers in my fridge between the time I was showering, looking at job ads, and watching Breaking Bad. When I opened the door to find Lane there at six PM, I was feeling a happy and lazy kind of buzzed.

He noticed and commented and I shrugged as he glanced at the collection of bottles piling up on my coffee table. Before I knew it, he had dragged me out to the car and we were rushing through evening traffic to make it to the shmancy fancy hotel the wedding was being held at.

"You have PAINTBALL GUNS? How did I not know you have paintball guns, Lane?" I said, examining the items in question that were laying in his backseat.

He shrugged. "A bunch of guys at the firm get together on weekends and play to avoid their wives. No biggie. You could join us some time."


"You do know your twenty-six?"

I shrugged.


"That b.itch."

"Is my sister here?" I looked around the reception space, clutching my drink in my hand. Some fruity crap named after the bride that was girly as hell, but surprisingly strong.

"No." Lane glared at me. "It's Karen."

"Karen as in that-b.itch-Karen?" I stood up from my place at the bar, slamming my drink down with some serious gusto.

Lane nodded.

"Who invited her? I thought she was just your plus one!"

"She's sort of friends with Sherry..." Lane shrugged. "Maybe she heard we broke up and asked her to still come. I don't know. Holy shit—there she is. Hide me."

"Are you thirteen? Come on. Man the hell up." I patted his back and motioned the bartender over with my free hand.

"Carter," I said, focusing on the bartenders name tag for a few seconds. "Get Lane here one of these fruity drinks. And keep 'em coming for me."

Carter nodded and went to mix up a Sherry concoction. Lane looked distastefully at it when it was brought over, but shrugged after a few sips and downed the majority of it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the b.itch. She was wearing a bright as hell yellow dress with a black stripe that made her look like a stupid bumble bee.

"She looks like a 'tarded bee, Lane."

Lane eyed me curiously instead of laughing like I had expected.

"Are you drunk, Patrick?"

I snorted. "Why would you ask me that?"

"You always leave the beginning of words off when you drink too much."

"Psh. Don't be 'upid."


I might have giggled.

"Drunk drunk drunk."

"Not 'unk."

"My God, Patrick!"

Lane wandered away from me sometime after this, leaving me to my fruity drink and wonderful bartender, Carter. Somewhere between my millionth and millionth and first drink, a bumble bee appeared beside me.

I swatted at her. "Shoo. Get away, bug."


I stared down Karen, narrowing my undoubtedly hazy eyes at her. "Duh, Karen. Duh."

Her blue eyes widened. "You're drunk."

"Why does 'eryone keep saying that!"

"Everyone, Pat. Everyone."

"That's what I said! 'Eryone!"

Karen blinked at me a few times before turning to Carter and requesting a drink.

Now I'm not quite sure, but I'm fairly certain I tried subtly whispering something about Karen being a—and I quote—"Hitler loving s.lutty hoe bag w.hore" to the bartender. In my mind, I recall this being a private moment, something just Carter and I shared. But Karen's reaction of hitting me upside the head with her handbag leads me to believe I might have been talking in something louder than a whisper.

"You w.hore!" was my unfortunate response to her bright freaking yellow bag hitting my head.

She gaped at me. "Seriously, Pat? Are you ten? Or are you still bitter?"

I let out a snort. "Right. I'M bitter. All I've gotta say is thank GOD I had the sense to get away from you when I did. Can't say the same for poor Lane, but, hell." I think I snorted some more here. "B.itches."

"I DUMPED YOU. Five years ago, a.sshole."

Karen's face was flaming red at this point, and I think it was mainly because of the flashing disco ball light in the dim reception area, but in my mind it was because she was angry.

"Whoa, calm down, sassy pants," I said, holding up my hands in surrender.

"Calm down? You're the drunk one."

"Do you wanna fight or something, Karen? I don't hit women, but I will slap a hoe."

She slapped me. Being as drunk as I was, my reaction time was rather slow. By the time I had recovered and looked up to tell her off, she was already halfway across the room.

"You okay?" A voice behind me said. I turned, finding a pretty girl in the chair beside mine.

"Okay? No." I slumped, my elbows landing on the bar. I tilted my face to look at hers, noticing the flushed face and hazy eyes that probably mirrored mine perfectly. "Are you drunk?"

She shrugged. "Pretty much. Are you gonna rape me or something?"

I shook my head. "I could probably get you in bed without resorting to that."

She shrugged again. "Probably. Could you not, though?"

I nodded. "You got it. Wanna do something else?"

A drunken plan was formulating in my head. It involved the pretty girl to my left and the keys to Lane's car.


"Are you sure the bride wanted this?" The pretty girl—Sierra—asked.

I passed her the second paintball gun. "Totally. You know, how cool will the paint look with all the flashing dance lights? It's like...a wedding thing. It's hip. Trending. You know."

"How'd you get the keys to this car?" She glanced towards Lane's Jeep that I was locking up.

"My buddy let me, uh, use them. He knows what's up." What had really happened was, I found Lane's jacket in the coat closet and in turn found his car keys in it. But that's beside the point.

I can't be too positive, but I'm about seventy-four perfect sure that I made out with the Sierra girl somewhere in between finding the keys and putting them back. Something happened that made us get mighty friendly, because when we were walking back into the reception, her hands were glued to me. She might have just been trying to help conceal the paintball guns I had hidden under my jacket, but that's definitely not how I remember it.

We were stealthily tracking our way through the reception, making our way past dancing twenty-something's and elderly folks with walkers and wheelchairs. I was trying to spot Karen, but ended up spotting Lane instead.

I had been watching him for a moment, curious about the girl he was speaking too. The ludicrous amount of alcohol I had was clear in this moment, as I probably stared at Lane and the girl for three minutes before I realized that said girl was Karen.

"There!" I whisper-shouted to Sierra, who's hands were either on my ass or arm; I don't remember. "That's our target." My arm stretched out as I pointed an index finger towards Karen.

"Wait. Target?" Sierra looked up, face flushed and eyes even more lost than before. "I thought we weren't shooting people."

"Just this one person. For me. Please? The bride told me to do it." I pouted. Hell, I might have met the bride once before in my life. But she was my number one excuse helping me with the Sierra girl.

Sierra looked determined. "If the bride wants it, we'll do it. She is my sister."

I blinked down at her. "What?" She started to open her mouth to respond, but I shook my head. "You know, I don't really care. Tell me later."

We ended up whipping our paintball guns out right there on the dance floor and aiming them straight at Karen. I hadn't really messed with one since high school, and Sierra had obviously not played any, so we stood there, guns in hand, trying to figure out how to work them for a good minute. Needless to say, during this time, someone noticed.

"GUN! Someone's got a gun! Everybody run!"

The scream of whoever had announced this silenced the room, save the loud music. Everyone turned to look at Sierra and me, gasping and ducking. Karen and Lane turned to look, eyes wide at first, but then narrowing when they saw me and what they knew were Lane's paintball guns.



Whatever her name was, we both trained our guns on Karen.

My memory gets progressively hazy from here on out. The point where we were both emptying the guns of all the paintballs is incredibly unclear. I specifically remembering seeing them heading straight for Karen and her ugly ass yellow dress. Then, when we stopped firing and I took a good look at the scene in front of me, I realized Lane was the one covered in paint.

At first I was severely questioning our aim, but I realized Lane was actually standing in front of Karen, guarding her.

"BUT SHE'S A B.ITCHY BUMBLE BEE!" was all I managed to shout at Lane in my intoxicated state.

Sierra was the only one who laughed.

There was a tap on my shoulder at this point, and me being the absolute idiot I was being, turned and immediately put my finger on the trigger of the paintball gun.

I focused my vision on the person in front of me, noticing the bright purple paint I had left on the front of their white dress. I looked up to see who it was.

"Oh! Hi, Sherry."

There was another tap on my shoulder and I turned to see Lane, now right beside me. Before I could start b.itching at him, his fist was flying towards my face.


I groan, lifting a hand to my face. I realize my face is swollen, around my eye.

"You gave me a shiner!" I say, glaring at Lane, who is sporting a grim smile.

"You were the biggest a.sshole I've ever met last night, man. You deserved that and so much more," he says, shaking his head. "You drank so much. Doc says you should be in a coma or something."

"Is that why...?" My eyes trail over to the IV.

He nods.

"Is Karen...?"

"She hates you. More."

I sigh. "Why were you talking to her?"

"Because I'm not a jerk. I was trying to be social and civil and not a drunken psychopath..." He looks pointedly at me.

"Sherry and Josh...?"

"On their honeymoon. Pissed, but they have a cool wedding story at the very least." Lane looks at me, silent for a moment, before adding, "What was that last night, man? You haven't gotten that drunk since...never."

I drop my gaze to the hospital sheets, sighing. "Ilostmyjobyesterday."

"You lost your...job?"

I nod, slowly.

"That's great!"

I glare at Lane. Losing my job was not great...losing my job was awful. How was I supposed to pay for anything? I had rent and groceries and...beer!

"I don't mean great..." Lane corrects himself. "I mean... Hell, I do mean great! You hated that job, Patrick. Working for that firm was the worst decision of your business life yet..."

I shrug, allowing this. I work for some company that needed a lawyer to do all their dirty work. What I want is Lane's job... He's an environmental lawyer that spends his days trying to save the world and suing companies like mine for pollution.

"Anyway. Kurt quit yesterday," Lane says.

My eyes widen. "Kurt quit?" Kurt, the guy who beat me out for the position at Lane's firm years ago? "Is there a position open?"


"GOD BLESS." I cringe, my words too loud for my pounding head. "The second I get out of here..."

I'm cut off by a nurse walking through the door. Her hair is in a messy bun, she's not wearing a trace of make up, and she looks nearly as hungover as me.

"Alright... Mr. Webb." She's looking down at my chart. "Can I get you—" She lifts her face up and I recognize her at the same moment she recognizes me.

"Sarah?" I ask hesitantly.



So...that was fun to write! Haha.

Edited by Jcrazy, 15 October 2013 - 06:53 PM.

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#65 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 15 October 2013 - 07:12 PM

^Favorite story anyone's written BY FAR. Every bit of it was great! You made me want to actually get around to writing one of these, lol. I'd give you more feedback but I need to finish my Bio homework before Supernatural starts. :P It was just all great. It made me laugh out loud a number of times. Wonderful work!



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#66 BonkersBookworm78


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Posted 16 October 2013 - 11:30 AM

That story was pretty much the definition of fun. Gosh, I am smiling so much,  it was just so good.

Millie May

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#67 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 18 October 2013 - 11:49 PM

Yooo, so I shared the prompts with my older sister (who we all know is kind of badass), and so she decided to write one. We were laughing so hard we were crying together when she was writing this. Feedback is really appreciated! She may even do another one or two. :)


A/N: This be Maddie. Hi. I’m Artemis’s sister (poor me;)). Wrote this on a writing/bonding  night with my sister for these prompts, and I don’t think it completely sucks! Which is shocking because I think the last time I wrote prose was a Percy Jackson fanfic in 6th grade (I’m a junior now). Ok that is all bye now:)



-based on the prompt "write a scene that starts at a car dealership and ends at a funeral"- 


“I like it.” Scratch that, I freaking love it.


Flynn eyes it critically. “Seriously?”


“Do you have a better idea?”


“Um, we could rent one? Instead of, you know, buying a goddamn hearse?” He rolls his eyes.


I attempt my best charming smile, which isn’t necessarily charming. “I need a car. And this sucker is cheap. We’re multitasking.”


“You disgust me.”


“Grampa would love it.” He would. He actually understood funny. I’m still not sure how Flynn and I are actually related.


“NO, Katie.”


“Let’s paint it purple. It can be a party hearse.” Party hearse for the win. “Like purple, with some zebra rugs and leather seats with a beer cooler and snacks, hell yes, like shitloads of Cheezits – “


“KATIE.” He looks visibly pained now.


“The Packer game is on during the funeral. We can stick a TV in there and it’ll be like he never left.”


“Oh, fu/ck me…”


“FLYNN, YES!” Pretty sure now that he’s just pissed because he didn’t come up with this.


“This is in no way, shape, or form a good idea.”


“Says who?” Like this could possibly backfire. I get a car, Grampa gets a free ride to the cemetery. I feel like this is a win-win situation.


“Who’s gonna drive it?”


I pause for a beat. This is a valid point. “Gramma?”


“OH MY GOD.” Ah, that may have been a bit far. “Do you even think before you speak?”


“I thought that was pretty damn funny, if that’s what you’re saying… How’s the sound system?”


He turns around and stalks away. “I’m leaving.”


“No, nonono you’re loaning me money!” He is, he promised, and I’m kind of banking on that fact. I really need a car. Or hearse. I’m not picky.


He groans. “Money for a CAR, not a HEARSE to drive at my grandfather’s FUNERAL.”


“Flynn, please…  I’m gonna pull out the puppy dog eyes.”






Gramma hugs me with tears in her eyes. “Katie, you are such a sweetheart. Daryl would love you doing this so much.”


I glance smugly at Flynn before smiling sweetly at my grieving grandmother. “I know he would, Gramma.”


Flynn scowls and mutters under his breath, “Oh, yes. Our dead grandpa loves his party hearse. So. Much.


“Shut UP, Flynn,” I mumble under my breath before climbing into the driver’s seat. He follows me into the passenger seat. I silently praise Jesus that I left the windows down. It’s effing hot out and I think I would freak out if I wasn’t getting that air. Grampa’s already set up in the backseat.


I glance in the rearview; the rest of the funeral procession seems ready to go. I turn the key –




I stare slack jawed at the radio for a second before slamming down the volume. Flynn is looking at me in utter horror. I can hear someone cackling hysterically a few cars back.


I can feel myself blushing. “It was Zeppelin when I drove here, ok?!”


“You drove to Grampa’s funeral blasting classic rock?!”


I don’t even bother to respond. Slinking lower in my seat, I shift into drive and lead the procession off. I glance in the rearview at the casket.


You’re getting a damn good deal here, buddy, I think to myself.

Edited by Pretty.Odd., 18 October 2013 - 11:53 PM.

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#68 Jcrazy


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Posted 19 October 2013 - 09:14 AM

Hahaha. Tell your sister I seriously loved it. Highway to Hell, lol. Favorite part.
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#69 BonkersBookworm78


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Posted 19 October 2013 - 09:39 AM

Oh gosh, tell your sister I found it really, really funny.

Millie May

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#70 24moon100


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Posted 19 October 2013 - 07:45 PM

Haha. That was hilarious; tell your sister she done good. ;)

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#71 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 19 October 2013 - 07:50 PM

Hahaha. Tell your sister I seriously loved it. Highway to Hell, lol. Favorite part.


Oh gosh, tell your sister I found it really, really funny.

Millie May


Haha. That was hilarious; tell your sister she done good. ;)


She says thanks to all of you guys. :) Lol. I wish I could be working on mine right now, but I have to write an essay on freaking Great Expectations. Do you know how much I hate Great Expectations? Let's just say a lot.

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#72 Jcrazy


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Posted 08 November 2013 - 07:07 PM

Bullet your (yester)day

-Woke up to the sound of my alarm BEEPING. Confused because usually it's guitar strumming.

-Parked badly. Everyday thing.

-Stayed in car to listen to radio.

-Ended up being late for first block. Snuck in through the back door.

-Coach announced there was an "FFA Alumni Meeting" that night. Asked the other helpers and me to clean the "lab." Swept and played hangman on the white board.

-Sold overpriced sodas to Coach's class. Stole one for myself.


-English. Listened to and read "inspirational speeches." Was not inspired.


-Went to animal science. Spun around in a rolling chair for the better part of fifteen minutes.

-Played with the chinchillas and bunny in the animal room. Was supposed to feed them. Oops.

-Looked up songs about rape w/ friends on the computer.

-Snuck out of school with Rachel, Rachel#2, and Taylor for lunch. Went to Wendy's.

-Devoured frosty in Rachel#2's truck.

-Ducked and rolled out of the truck and ran to interior design 2. Just sort of late.

-Talked to Hannah and Sierra. Decided it was time to start building our doll houses for our project after school. Promised to make them quesadillas.

-Managed to do all of my online work in ten minutes. Played primary games on the internet until I found a hullo hoop.

-Hullo hooped to the bathroom.


-Stayed after school for FCCLA meeting. Ran out halfway through afraid that Hannah and Sierra would get to my house before me.

-Got home. They weren't there. I started making quesadillas.

-Hannah and Sierra showed up. Jared made a sexual joke.

-We started eating. Looked at doll house parts. Realized that only a house contractor could build them.

-Jordan and Joe called. Wanted to come over. Told them yes, if they would help with doll houses.

-Blasted high school musical.

-Watched Jordan and Joe build a doll house for two hours. Still not done.

-Got a call from Cato and Matt. Wanted to come over. Told them yes, if they would help with doll houses.

-Watched Cato, Matt, Joe, Jordan, Jared, and my dad work on doll houses for two more hours.

-Pingpong and cookie break.

-Doll house sort of finished. Hannah, Sierra, and I praised The Lord.

-We remembered there are seven doll houses. Oops.

-Friends left somewhere around ten-eleven, slowly, one by one.

-Me and my cat chilled by the wood stove for a good half hour.

-Realized I needed to pee. Peed.

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#73 Meg_Rulz


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Posted 23 November 2013 - 05:45 AM

Now THAT was cool!

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#74 octoberoriole


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Posted 12 December 2013 - 02:38 AM

Any prompts for this month??? Did this end???

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#75 Jcrazy


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Posted 12 December 2013 - 07:51 AM

You can still use any of the prompts that are on here. :) They don't expire haha. If you have prompts of your own you'd like to do and post, that's also okay :)
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#76 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 06 January 2014 - 10:55 PM

This short story exists for one reason: curing my writer's block. It's relatively pointless--mostly just practice. Description practice, dialogue practice, character practice, crime-writing practice. Only read if you like pointless little blurbs.


January, 1st

1:15 AM


“I’d wish you a happy New Year, but I have a feeling it would be a little inappropriate at a murder scene.”


I pulled out a cigarette and lit up, surveying the scene a second time. Dirty kitchen, dim lights, TV still running some New Year’s crap in the living room, dead guy on the cold tile floor. “Yeah? You think so?” It seemed like a fine place to wish someone a happy New Year to me.


Owen looked horrified—but not because of the mutilated corpse in front of us. “You can’t smoke at a crime scene, Beth.” I shrugged and took a long drag to show how little I cared. “Beth. Come on.”


“Fu/ck off.” He just shook his head to himself and crouched down next to the body. Just to aggravate him a little further, I added, “Happy New Year, Owen.”


Fu/ck off,” he mimicked, and I laughed. It didn’t irritate me like he wanted it to; I thought it was funny. He pursed his lips. “It’s January 1st. Twenty minutes ago it was December 31st. What’s the big deal?”


“Don’t piss all over my party. It’s New Years. We’re supposed to be celebrating.”


He pulled on a pair of blue rubber gloves and lifted the victim’s hand. The corpse’s fresh blood stained the light blue of the glove an unpleasant shade of dark purple. “Celebrating at a crime scene. Fun.”


“Better than sitting at home and getting so drunk you pass out before midnight even rolls around.” I pointed to the dead guy. “This guy’s great company, too. Better than annoying relatives or friends you have to pretend to like. At least he won’t throw up all over you.”


Owen didn’t seem amused. “The only reason I’m in such a sh/it mood is because I’ve got this dead bastard to take care of when I should be off getting drunk and snogging my girlfriend.”


“So snog me instead,” I suggested.


He rolled his eyes and handed me a pair of gloves. “You think Molly would go for that?”


I put out my cigarette. “Take a joke, Owen,” I told him, pulling my hair into a tight ponytail before putting the bulky blue gloves on.


“I don’t think it’s funny.”


“That’s because you have no sense of humor,” I replied, bending down next to him. The stab wounds looked even worse up close. “What are you thinking here?”


“Notice the bruises around the wrists?”


I nodded. “Kind of hard to miss.”


“Murderer bound the victim.” I took a deep breath. Obvious. I’d proved myself on the last case—the rookie wasn’t much of a rookie anymore—but Owen was still pretending that I’d arrived on the job yesterday. “So maybe this was some kind of torture thing.”


“Yeah?” I poked the victim’s arm with my gloved hand. “What makes you say that?”


Owen pointed to the bloody mess that trailed from one of the kitchen chairs to the ground where the victim lay sprawled out on the tiles. “The murderer dragged the experience out. Note the struggle—the victim starts on the chair, ends up here, on the floor. We can deduce that from—”


“Look, Owen, I’m not an idiot.”


“Okay.” He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “Did you notice the variation in the stab wounds?”


“Yeah, sort of, I guess. This one’s gonna kill someone—” I pointed to the incision that ripped the stomach in two—“and this other one, here, in the arm, is just gonna hurt like a bi/tch.”


“And you see how many of the shallow cuts there are?”


“A lot.”


“There are tons of them. And how many deep cuts?”


I took another good look at the body to make sure I hadn’t missed anything obvious. “Just two. The stomach, and then the throat.”


“Saved those for last, I’m sure.”


As he got up off the floor to investigate the rest of the room, I leaned over the victim and cringed. “Who slits someone’s stomach open just for the fun of it?”


Owen exchanged his bloodied gloves for a fresh pair. “Bastards get off on it.”


“That’s disgusting,” I replied.


“Yeah, well.” He gestured to the room. “Welcome to the job, sweetheart.”


He picked around the room, opening cabinets and pacing around the place for whatever evidence he could find. I kept examining the body. “You really upset about missing out on your New Year’s party, Owen?”


He sighed again and closed the refrigerator. “Not upset.”


“Sure sounded like it,” I commented, getting one last look at the body before standing up off the floor.


“I hate New Year’s.”


I pulled off my gloves and brushed off my skirt once I’d stood up. “Why’s that?” He was the first person I’d met who didn’t like New Year’s. Hell—even I liked New Year’s. Sure, the “putting the past behind you” crap wasn’t necessarily up my alley, but I loved the parties. I couldn’t see how Owen could dislike the occasion.


“We’re on a spinning rock that revolves around a bigass star. It takes 365 days to fully travel around said bigass star. So every 365 days—every time we make it all the way around that bigass star—we decide it’s some huge deal and throw a party and decide we’re going to ‘change’ for the next 365 days that we hurdle on through space around our lovely bigass star. It’s stupid.”


“You’re looking too closely into it,” I replied, leaning against the dishwasher while a crowd cheered about something on the TV in the other room. “The less you think about it, the better off you are. It’s only stupid if you make it that way.”


“It’s stupid no matter what I think.”


“Yeah, okay, it’s dumb. I can’t argue that. But what about the parties? The parties are fun, right?”


“Hate those, too.”


“Well, then,” I started. I handed him my pair of gloves. “You call in forensics and do whatever you experienced detective folk like to do. I’m going to go get myself a drink and enjoy the start of 2014. We can do some real work tomorrow.”


Owen took my gloves and smiled a sad little smile. “Happy New Year, Beth.”


I smiled back. “Happy New Year.”

Edited by Pretty.Odd., 06 January 2014 - 10:59 PM.

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#77 Jcrazy


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Posted 06 January 2014 - 11:15 PM

Good short story! Makes me want to get around to writing another one of these. I love all the prompts, I just need to set aside some time to do a few.

Anyway, nice one :)
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#78 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 06 January 2014 - 11:22 PM

Good short story! Makes me want to get around to writing another one of these. I love all the prompts, I just need to set aside some time to do a few.

Anyway, nice one :)


Lol. I had the intention of doing all of these. I've just been watching Orphan Black all day and felt inspired, so I went back to the prompt list and wrote one. I think one day I'll write something that doesn't involve murder hahaha.

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#79 BonkersBookworm78


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Posted 07 January 2014 - 11:48 AM

“We’re on a spinning rock that revolves around a bigass star. It takes 365 days to fully travel around said bigass star. So every 365 days—every time we make it all the way around that bigass star—we decide it’s some huge deal and throw a party and decide we’re going to ‘change’ for the next 365 days that we hurdle on through space around our lovely bigass star. It’s stupid.”


​Sorry, won't let me quote anything, but that was just perfect.

​Seriously I will get round to writing one of these sometime. 

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#80 24moon100


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Posted 18 January 2014 - 04:16 AM

Bullet your day:


-Woke up around 8:15 to the hideous sound of my alarm.


-Hit the snooze about five times as per usual morning ritual. 


-Checked phone to see if I needed to give Sierra a ride.


-Found out she is still sick. 


-Crawled out of bed.


-Put my contacts in even though my eyes screamed in protest. 


-Drove to school.


-Blasted Parachute on the way there. 


-Sat in the car and tried to memorize 15 sentences in spanish. 


-Went to Principles of Human Services. 


-Listened to Mike Donahue talk for the whole class. Decided he was a cool guy. 


-Went to pit (homeroom) and tried to memorize spanish some more. 


-Decided to go to the bathroom and ended up finding Rylie and her boyfriend sitting in the middle of the hallway. Her boyfriend was playing the ocarina of time.


-Figured I'd join them.


-Got bored and then went to the bathroom like I'd originally planned.


-Went to spanish and presented my sentences. Forgot my sentences halfway through.


-Went to lunch and wandered the halls like a loner because all my friends seemed to have mysteriously disappeared.


-Went to Leadership and took a name test. 


-Came home. 


-Watched Ellen.


-Ate burgers.


-Passed out.


-Am now watching Breaking Bad.


-A little disturbed because I just watched a girl choke on her own vomit. Then again, I've seen worse..


-About to go to bed. 


-Goodnight. :)




Not the most exciting of days, but yeah. That's my day in a nutshell. I'll do this again when I have something more fascinating to share.



Edited by 24moon100, 18 January 2014 - 04:23 AM.

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#81 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 18 January 2014 - 10:14 AM

^ Jaaaane. ): Ugh. That episode made me so sad.




I don't know which one I'll be doing, but I plan on doing one.. 

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#82 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 07 May 2014 - 08:24 PM




-based on the prompt "that awkward moment when your digging a hole to hide a body and you find another body"


“Oh my God, Mitch, this is the same spot as last week!”


I look up, eyes wild and heart pounding. Sweat, blood, and mud stain my face. “What d’you mean, the same spot as last week?” That can’t be right. “Weren’t they in Janesville last week?” Trent grimaces, leaning on the shovel and staring down at the grave he’d been digging. He shakes his head and my heart lurches in my chest. “I’m ninety percent sure they were in Janesville, okay?”


Neither of us is fully convinced—I can tell by the look on his face and the sinking feeling in my stomach.


Trent points down to the hole in the ground. “Then how do you explain Dan Barlow’s corpse lying in this exact spot?”


I burry my head in my hands. “Sh/it.”


He paces around, growing angrier and angrier as the seconds pass. He hits his breaking point and throws the shovel into the freshly (re)dug grave.


“Sh/it,” I repeat, staring at him vacantly. “Sh/it sh/it sh/it.”


“What the hell, Mitch.” He turns toward me, posture rigid. “You literally had one job—coordinate the time and place. Adrian does the dirty work, I’m the Disposer, and all you have to do is get two facts straight—and you can’t even do that.” He inhales sharply, nostrils flared. “Oh, my God. We’re so screwed. Way to fu/cking go, you fu/cking—”


He throws the shovel again. In any other circumstance, Trent’s temper tantrum would’ve been riotous. Now, not so much. I stare in horror, words escaping me.


“What do you suppose we do now, huh?” I shrug sheepishly, too afraid to speak up. He’s still pacing, his bloodstained hands clenched into fists. “We just disturbed the Barlow site, we’ve got two more fresh ones in the back of the truck, and our window for burial time is just about closed. Fu/cking hell.”


Trent isn’t thinking straight. Ordinarily, he’s the calm one. If I mess up, he’s the one with the backup plan. He isn’t trying to refill the gravesite—he’s not doing what he usually does. He’s dwelling on the facts instead of taking action, and for some reason, that makes me even more scared of him than I normally am.


My voice is hoarse when I finally manage to speak. “We need to rebury Barlow. Now.”


The plan of action distracts him from his anger, or at least lessens his outburst. I go to grab a shovel from the back of the truck Adrian assigned us to, trying to block out the sound of Trent’s constant stream of expletives as he pours shovelful after shovelful of soil back into the hole. I open the hatch of the trunk and immediately bring my hand to my nose to block the smell. As many jobs as I’ve done for Adrian, I never get used to the smell. I snatch the closest shovel, shut the hatch, and rush back to help Trent.


“What the hell are we going to do with the bodies, Coordinator?” he spits between shallow breaths.


“I don’t know.” It’s embarrassing to say, but it’s the truth. Trent almost throws his shovel a third time. “Look—this whole time, I thought we were supposed to be going to the Janesville site. I must’ve looked at the schedule wrong, got a week off. It’s an easy mistake to make, okay? Anyone could’ve made that mista—”


“Your mistake has the potential to overthrow the entire operation, dumbass.”


The startling part of his anger is the fact that it’s directed at me. I suddenly feel more vulnerable than ever. Trent is built from years of digging, but I’m new, and I’m just the Coordinator. I don’t do the hard stuff. He has the upper hand, I realize. My knees feel weak and I’m overcome with unexpected nausea.


“Now come on,” he growls. “You have to have a backup plan—it’s your job.”


“Well,” I say reluctantly, “I’ve never really bothered coming up with a plan for this particular scenario.”


“You are the worst Coordinator ever, you know that?”


I throw dirt onto the remnants of Barlow’s head. His whole body is covered now—just five and a half more feet to go.


I manage to tune Trent out as we go, responding to his harsh remarks with nothing more than grunts or sighs. My whole body aches, and I’m only doing a fraction of the work he is. I fear the combination of fear, nausea, and exertion will do me in.


An eternity goes by, and we’re finished. We’ve covered Barlow’s body once more, but two more subjects lie in the back of the truck. It will take another eternity to drive to the next site to dispose of them, but we don’t have an eternity to waste. Adrian’s imminent wrath looms over me, and I begin to wonder how I ended up in such a cutthroat profession to begin with.


“Let’s go,” Trent says, making the area look as inconspicuous as he can. He grabs the shovel from my weak, shaking hands and heads for the car. I follow at a pace faster than I should be capable of at the time.


“Where are we going?” I ask, entering the truck from the passenger’s side. I drive most of the time, but I have to give Trent control. He’s commanding things now. He has become both the Disposer and the Coordinator. I am purposeless now that he has seized my job from me due to my apparent lack of competence.


He starts the car and drives furiously out of the deserted patch of woods Adrian had set for Barlow’s disposal. “Janesville.”


“Weren’t they in Janesville—?”


“No, dumbass. You got your weeks confused, remember?”


“Well, if I thought they’d been in Janesville the week before this one, it probably means that the disposal before Barlow’s was in Janesville.”


“Or you’re just a dumbass.”


I don't argue for fear of another outburst. Instead, I just let him drive.


Janesville is something like half an hour from the Barlow site, and the drive is unbearable. He keeps the radio off, and so the only sound is heavy breathing and his occasional sighs. Tension continues to build when we reach the new site. We dig the grave in the same silence that we drove in.


Six feet deep and wider than what seems necessary. I don’t so much as lift an eyebrow. Trent is the expert, after all. I’m only helping because it was me who made the mistake in the first place.


We stare down at the hole in the ground. “You think that’s big enough?” he asks, and I nod. I continue to stare down as he begins to carry the bodies from the trunk to the gravesite. He doesn’t bother laying them in carefully or respectfully; it’s not the ceremony most burials normally are. It’s quick, makeshift, and neither of expresses a bit of remorse for the deceased.


I let him start the reburying process on his own. I’m too tired—I’ve already gotten more physical activity in a span of a couple hours than I usually do in a good year. I turn my back to him as he returns to the pile of dirt near the truck.


“It’s policy, okay?”


Those are the last words I hear before Trent swings the shovel up over his head and brings it against the back of my head with full force. I’m falling down, six feet down—and I’m hardly conscious when I land. My eyesight is blurry and my body is completely immobile from both overexertion and shock. Trent starts shoveling, and my protests are drowned out by mouthfuls of dirt.

Edited by Pretty.Odd., 07 May 2014 - 08:30 PM.

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#83 Jcrazy


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Posted 07 May 2014 - 09:06 PM


Oh my God. The completely casual tone that story took on was so AWESOME. Haha. The ending was not expected, but let's be real, it should have been expected!

I wanna do one of these ((:
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#84 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 07 May 2014 - 09:11 PM


Oh my God. The completely casual tone that story took on was so AWESOME. Haha. The ending was not expected, but let's be real, it should have been expected!

I wanna do one of these ((:


Legit feel kind of psycho after writing this--like, where did that come from? Totally out of the blue. Had no intentions to write this until I sat down at my laptop to do bio and started procrastinating. :P


IT WAS SO WEIRD. Talking about dead bodies in the back of the truck like "whatever" is just ???? I think I need to write some fluff now...


Your should do another one! :D

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#85 Jcrazy


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Posted 07 May 2014 - 09:14 PM

Fluff helps to balance out burying dead bodies :)

And yes! I just need to decide which one.
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#86 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 07 May 2014 - 09:17 PM

Fluff helps to balance out burying dead bodies :)

And yes! I just need to decide which one.


Out of context, that sentence is pretty morbid. Lol.


Okay, so I just reread that, and the whole thing killed me. What does "I didn't so much as raise an eyebrow" mean? Isn't the phrase "blink an eye"? Whaaaat. I think my mind was starting to drift to the kingdom Protista when I finished that up...


The hardest part is picking which one to do. It's so STRESSFUL. :P

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#87 Jcrazy


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Posted 07 May 2014 - 09:32 PM

Not so much as raising an eyebrow is way better than blinking an eye... Maybe. Haha, it should definitely be a thing though ;P
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#88 BonkersBookworm78


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Posted 08 May 2014 - 10:16 AM

That was hilarious.( Is it creepy that I find that hilarious?) 

The ending was so happy. 

(I was being sarcastic, but it doesn't sound right somehow.)

Edited by BonkersBookworm78, 08 May 2014 - 10:17 AM.

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#89 Pretty.Odd.


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Posted 09 May 2014 - 02:40 PM


-“your mom” jokes


-pencils without erasers


-country music


-the irritating fad where teenage girls need to discuss and sing and cry about Disney movies because “they were my CHILDHOOD”


-people who walk slowly in the school hallways


-small talk (bonus points if it’s about the weather)


-the phrase “feels” (ex: “oh my god all the feels!!”)


-people who try to shove political/spiritual views on others


-the leggings, Uggs, scarves, sweaters, messy bun trend (fun fact: it’s not cute)


-people with no common sense (also: people who don’t understand sarcasm, satire, irony, etc.)


-teenage girls complaining about being “born in the wrong generation” (It doesn’t mean anything if you like 90s music, because, hey, guess what? Everyone likes 90s music.)


-the appalling amount of chevron I have to see every day at school




-that thing where there’s an absolutely amazing album—except for ONE SONG that ruins the whole thing


-people who frown on others for doing well in school (??? I’ve never understand these people’s logic)






-when people state their defining quality as their “great taste in music” (please stop)


-stereotypes (did you even watch The Breakfast Club??)


-when the writers of a TV show are godawful and butcher a show that had potential (LOOKIN AT YOU, SUPERNATURAL SEASONS 6-9; I stopped watching because I’ve hated this season with passion more incredible than the lack of writing skills the writers of SPN possess)


-white kids who pretend they're black (it sounds racist but IT’S A THING; we all know that one kid)


-people who do not appreciate the beauty of movie scores


-people who blaspheme against the holy and sacred Breaking Bad


-GLUTEN INTOLERANCE (lactose intolerance, too)


-sexist people (NOT JUST MEN—women too, and you’re stupid if you think only men are sexist)


-really hot weather


-really cold weather


-people who describe themselves as “quirky” (no you’re not)


-when people get the urge to quote Mean Girls 24/7


-optimists (are you people even real?)


-the word “wick”


-pretentious teenage writers who believe themselves to be God incarnate (which is the reason why my online writing activities take place ONLY ON THIS SITE; no one here makes me want to stab myself in the eyes)


-the color yellow (unless it’s in a Van Gogh painting, in which it will probably make me cry)


-Great Expectations

Edited by Pretty.Odd., 09 May 2014 - 02:42 PM.

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#90 BonkersBookworm78


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Posted 09 May 2014 - 03:44 PM

The album thing is really irritating (I agree with a lot of the other points you made.)

Hey, I may actual write a prompt, I can't write seriously at the moment.

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