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quote:TODAY'S PROMPT FEBRUARY 10th 2017: The sun is missing. Metaphors are literal now. Somebody is searching for something they didn't actually lose. Sól ran as fast as humanly possible and then faster still. Her golden cape billowed behind her, and heavy flakes of ash were caught in the tresses of her hair. Softly spoken curses mixed with the mist of her breath. The moor burned. All she had to follow was charred tracks carved into the earth. Where was her horse and the chariot-like cart still tied to it? Where was the sun she was tasked with bringing across the sky each day? She had barely gotten free of the horizon before the god-appointed horse had no longer followed her orders and crashed to the ground. Sól swore again, swore by the gates of Hel as she strode through sweet-scented smoke that continued to rise from burning heather. Leaning against a low ridge, a man covered his eyes. Sól needed not see to know why - she was on the right track, and mortal men were not supposed to look directly at her sun this close. She left him behind, hurrying over the next hill, and the next after that. Perhaps she should have run to the gods instead and asked their help, but that would also entail asking them to forgive the failed sunrise... Some plants were unharmed. Clover still bloomed, and she could sense the confusion of seeds lying in wait below, now stirring in the earth as they felt all the heat of spring and summer at once. Clover - of course! A last leap brought her miles ahead, as it had to if she was ever to catch up with the fastest horse in the world. There stood the dammed animal, in a small hollow, trying to eat those small white flowers that wilted and went up in flames as soon as the sun in the cart came close enough. It stopped completely still in her presence, tired out from running, sweat glistening on its back. It had simply given up, knowing that she would always chase it down. She did not need to eat or rest. The horse's braided mane had mostly come undone, but the reins were still on and she was glad to see the sun, a marvellously crafted glowing orb, safe in the chariot. Sól ran her hand over the smooth surface of her treasure. She sighed with relief. "Let's get you back up there," she said, and glared at the horse. Perhaps she pulled the reins a little too tightly when she took her rightful place. Up they rose, in any case, and she wondered what effect the day's escapades would have on the lands growing rapidly smaller beneath her. It wouldn't matter much. These people, wandering about their fields and farms with their eyes turned to the changing sky, were used to a world where gods sometimes made small mistakes. And where horses were stubborn beasts.
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Feb 10, 2017 10:52
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| # ¿ Apr 29, 2024 09:32 |
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Doubleposting to say that I fully support this initiative. Getting a couple hundred words out like this was a good "warm-up" for the day's writing session and I'm glad you're taking the time to make prompts 
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Feb 10, 2017 10:56
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:aaaaaw yeah lads that's the good stuff Behind the glass is a shop that sells light. There are rows and rows of candles all owned by a nervous man. He has a drawer in his desk that he is afraid to open. Tall, short, fat, thin. All sorts of candles - a capricious sort that die easily and those that burn forever, the kind you place at graves. Magical candles, red like the inside of a hungry mouth or pale like the whites of your eyes. Tealights that smell like darjeeling. The dust in the display window smells like wasted time. The man used to get such warm, sweaty palms that the wax would melt in his hands if he had to help a customer. Lately, there have been no customers, and now he worries about a spreadsheet on his desk. Sitting at the till, he sees people walking past. They can see him, too, all day long. In the evening, the room grows dark enough for privacy. This evening, the man takes a small brass key and unlocks the drawer, withdraws a lighter. A flame touches a wick that curls and blackens, spreading lavender-scented smoke. The man is tired, and the candles have gone unlit for too long. He trudges from one shelf to another, from wick to wick, and soon the air is thick with perfume. The window is a blaze of light: The fat candles shine like stars, the spells work all at once, and wax drips down to cover the marble floor like some sort of soft, oozing carpet.
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Feb 19, 2017 19:15
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TODAY'S PROMPT FEBRUARY 18th 2017: the world is mable of marble, glass and chrome. Somebody feels very small.
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llamaguccii posted:Emitting Cool stuff. 5D AUTISM SPEX posted:prompt: they buried her alive SurreptitiousMuffin posted:candles, darkness, an intake of breath. We buried her under the hill behind the bike shed and the air tasted like rusting metal, like rain. We had no dark, moist earth - she laid in sand, cardboard, dirt and old discarded juiceboxes. There was not a single candle and no speech for we were a row of boys standing around in a new sort of silence. Toes wriggled in wellies, pudgy hands were clasped and caked in mud. The silence was solemn, like the first word that broke it would have to be important, but none of us could think of anything good to say. Behind the schoolbuilding, adults raised their voices and took the smaller kids in for shelter. Old and young, all would say we made it all up. Everything about going into a fairy-circle and the kingdom of the fey, walking through the intoxicating heather-fields and meeting the Queen Gracious. Maybe they'd even say that it was a girl-thing to make up stories about fairies. In the silence we looked into each other's eyes. We tried to discern whether we all remembered the same. A few of us were already growing less serious, looking ready to head back. That was fine after we decided that it was a boy-thing to keep a secret good. Forever, if we had to. We wouldn't show a living soul our grief at the small kids digging up our fairy-circle or the way that night had fallen on the kingdom. Our quest was done. We had set no gravestone marker on the hill behind the bike shed. If there was a scent of lavender still lingering on our clothes, we did not draw attention to it. Only when I was alone did I close my eyes and inhale.
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Feb 27, 2017 11:51
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No Gravitas posted:Prompt: A bell is rung. A candle is blown out. The book closes. The dance begins. The King's parties were lavish and frequent. The amount of guests grew and grew. In the end, the nobility started to stray, making excuses, avoiding invitations. A brave few were downright refusing on account of the things they had seen. But the merchants, the middle-class, even peasants were invited on certain nights, and the promise of food and wine was enough to make them gather in gleaming halls. The King spent the evening speaking to subjects. He had common people at his right and left and joined in their conversations. All scandalous, of course, but nobody spoke of it. The servants would never raise concerns, and the nobility wouldn't go against their King. He spoke to his guests about the state of the land or the court or the moon. The red moon visible through arched windows. Everything was lit by candles. Everything was underscored by violins. The King would, when the evening was drawing to a close, clap his hands and make the music stop. A bell sounded, terribly loud, and the candles were blown out. The guests now stumbled around in the dark, blind and deaf and lost. The King ate them. He opened a maw that was not a mouth, swung around ladies in mocking dances before tearing into them, leaving bloody bites. The nobles who knew what was coming pressed themselves agsinst the walls and tried not to breathe too loud. They avoided the heavy bulk of the King's body as he moved among them, pulling a wrist here, swallowing a hand there, seeing in the dark the way predatory animals do. If the moon shone just right, one could catch a glimpse of his white teeth and the utter blackness inside him. His bulging eyes showed inhuman hunger, his protruding stomach was distended until all veins were blue and purple against his waxy skin. Then he retreated to his chambers and the dance was over.
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Mar 6, 2017 11:29
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| # ¿ Apr 29, 2024 09:32 |
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quote:prompt: my thoughts circle like ancient sharks when my feet have trespassed 'cross sainted grass blades She's sitting in her parlour putting on the powders. Red rouge, white dust. She knows how she wants to be embalmed when she dies, but she has many years left to promenade through the lit-up city of saints. She’ll go past the statues. The judging glares. That, every day. And past the churches. The voices. Today every congregation will sing a hymn to youth and light. To the park - past the trees so old that they slouch and drag their branches through the river water when it is windy. She is not at all like willows, stiff as she puts on her dress. Her underskirt is all hoops and wires, and she drags her fingers around the circles. She has to look like this to catch the men standing in the courtyards before the grand cathedral, those staring and talking and doing their best to keep their hats on when it's windy. She walks slowly past them as well as she can in cumbersome clothing. The last part of the outfit is a pair of black shoes that make her taller. She looks them over. There is powder on her fingertips. She leaves a trail on all she touches. She touches the heel of a shoe. The hymn begins, runs like water through the street, taking the path of least resistance with the gutter-people who’ll hum it all day, rising enough to make a puddle on the square and in the mouths of passing women, becoming a river outside her front door. Her head is filled with the verses written in the faces of stone saints. She dips her fingertips into the flood. She discovers, upon reaching the park, that she never put the black shoes on.
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Mar 19, 2017 20:00
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