Community Short Story and Writing Prompts

[TheFrugalWizard he/him]

I wanted to make a community writing thread. There are quite a few talented writers on this website, and I think it would be interesting to see exchanging of stories and community feedback. A call to all aspiring writers: We want to hear your stories! There are far too many threads devited to a single person! This is a community!

This is also a thread for writing prompts. If you have a creative mind but aren't great at writing, that's fine! Post a writing prompt. all I ask is that you credit someone who gave you inspiration by quoting them.

While I don't want this thread to turn into an RP, feel free to build off each other's stories (giving proper credit) and continue your own stories! Let this be a place for community writing, sharing, feedback, and not to forget the famed writing stick.

Edited March 14 by TheFrugalWizard

[J. Magi she/her]

This seems like a great idea! Are you thinking more along the lines of just sharing prompts, or having everyone put a bunch of prompts together in one (or a few) story?

[TheFrugalWizard he/him]

10 minutes ago, justice magician said:

This seems like a great idea! Are you thinking more along the lines of just sharing prompts, or having everyone put a bunch of prompts together in one (or a few) story?

Either! If you wanted to just share an idea you came up with and see what people write, that's grerat! If you want to be more ambitious and combine multipte prompts into one story, feel free!

[The Stormfather He/Him]

So could I post a random scene I thought of in here?

(PS protag is a cat. Warriors. No context needed at all.)

Spoiler

   Wishfeather crept along the ground, striding easily through the underbrush. He could hear the hawk in the trees above him, screeching in anger as the scent of the terrible bird filled his mouth.

   He quickly darted under a juniper bush, legs trembling in fear as the hawk let loose a loud caw. He gathered himself, then launched himself into a sprint along the rugged and rocky terrain of his territory. He quickly glanced behind him, snarling in anger as he saw the hawk, talons still bloody from their encounter a few moments before, flying at high speeds towards him.

   The others always said he was scared of hawks. He was, but he had a good reason. This is the fourth time! He always tried hunting at the northern end of the territory, always going in spite so that they thought he wasn't scared like a kit of a bird.

   He was scared right to the Place of No Stars of a bird.

   He leaped across a small stream that flowed down the rocky ground, picking up speed. Wishfeather glanced again and saw the hawk flying above the canopy of trees, cawing loudly. 

   Wishfeather turned quickly, heading back the other direction, towards camp. If I can make it to camp, someone can fight this thing, right? His paws pounding on the ground, he ran past the Spike-Rock, the training clearing, and the patch of herbs that Berrywhisker was always tending to. The hawk stayed right on his tail the entire time, the giant bird squawking loudly and carshing through the branches of the large pines of his territory.

   "Grayclaw! Hawk!" He cried out as he spotted the hunting warrior, who was mid-pounce, a mouse between his paws.

    "Wishfeather?"

   The gray warrior struck quickly. And the hawk dropped.

   "I swear this is a pattern. Four times!"

 

 

[TheFrugalWizard he/him]

I actually have some writing of my own to share. I don't know if anyone here has read The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (very good read, I recommend highly), this is a continuation of the book. For those of you who haven't, see the summary below.

Summary

Spoiler

The story begins with a young man named Edmond Dantes. He isn't important to what I wrote, but he's the main character. Anyways, basically some people sent him to jail and when he escapes he wants revenge. Now, two of the people had children, named Maximillian and Valentine. They are in love, but it's forbidden love since Max is much lower class then Valentine. At the end of the book, they get together, and that's where I pick up. 

Important notes: Benoit is not in the original book, he is a character of my own invention.

This story takes place in post-Napoleon France, specifically in Paris.

Villefort is Valentine's dad, who went insane after his wife committed suicide.

On to the story! Apologize for the text all in bold. I transfered from a google doc, and it won't let me un-bold it. It's better of you transfer it to a google doc or something, because it's weird to read it like that. Also apologies for the random line breaks. Again - imported from Google docs.

Spoiler

Benoit was supposed to be asleep. His mother always got angry with him when he came out after bedtime. Benoit, however, didn’t see the logic in this at all. Why should she get to stay up? He wasn’t some kid anymore! He was nine now. He could take care of himself. As Benoit snuck out of the room he and his mother shared, he heard voices from the front door. Curious, he crept towards the sounds. His mother was talking with two tall, finely dressed men. He carefully positioned himself so that he couldn’t be seen and listened to them speak.

“…can’t extend it any longer,” one of the men was saying. “We are going to have to ask you to

leave.”

Leave? Leave for where? Benoit’s brow wrinkled with concern. He had lived in this little

apartment his whole life! Where would they go to?

“Very well, I’ll just—” his mother began, but was overtaken by a fit of coughing. She wheezed

and panted, doubling over in an effort to circumvent the pain. The two men stood over her, watching with indifferent expressions. When the episode had subsided, she continued. “I’ll just go get my things. We’ll be out of here by morning,” she finished in a whisper. Frightened, Benoit slipped back into his room, where he slept fitfully, dreaming of strange unknowns and wild lands.

Benoit awoke the next morning to his mothers bedraggled face. “Come, Benoit. We must leave at once.”

A spike of alarm coursed through Benoit. “Go where?”

His mother smiled at him. Young though he was, Benoit could see the fatigue in her expression.

“Benoit, there is a world of adventure out there. It’s our job to go and explore it.”

Benoit clung to his mother’s hand as they walked out onto the streets of the Paris slums. His

mother kept her head down, covered in a shawl as they walked, trudging through the grimy gutters for what seemed like hours. Benoit was equally terrified and exhausted by the time they stopped. His mother, without warning, slowed to a halt. He was so worn out that he didn’t ask her why. He sat down on the street, his hand releasing his mother.

It was only as he sat, leaning against a moss-covered wall that he saw why she had stopped. Four men, dirty and tough, were blocking the alleyway. One of them was advancing toward his mother, a sneer on his filthy face. 

“Well, hello there. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” the man said. Benoit could tell that what he said was sarcastic, but he wasn’t sure he understood what the man meant. Frightened, Benoit slowly stood up. Even as he did, three more men emerged from the shadows, blocking the only other way out. Benoit could see why his mother hadn’t run.

“Benoit,” his mother said in a cold, demanding voice. He’d never heard her speak in that voice,

unless it was an emergency. Frightened, Benoit stood, rooted to the hard cobblestones. “Benoit.” His mother spoke with more volume and firmness now. She was desperate.

“Ma?” he replied, voice wavering.

“Benoit, you have to run. Find your father and tell him to come as fast as he can—” She was cut off by the man who had spoken earlier.

“That won’t be needed, Benoit. You can stay right here.” He finished with a laugh like an old dog.

Before he could move, one of the men grabbed him from behind, clamping a hand over his mouth and pinning his hands behind his back. His mother watched with angry eyes. 

“Now, little miss princess. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“No!” she screamed, backing away. Men were still blocking the alleyway, and one of them

grabbed her arms, holding her fast. A wide, greedy smile on his face, the first man approached.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in a mock baby voice. “Scared of a little… playtime?” he switched

back to his gravelly voice.

“Stop! No!” Benoit could see his mother’s desperation. “Get off of me!”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s an option,” replied the man. He placed a meaty hand on her side, a

wicked smile upon his face. Then, his mother started coughing. They were raspy, painful coughs that made Benoit cringe to hear. The man backed off, surprised. His mother didn’t stop. He could tell that this was worse than any previous episode she’d had.

“Mother!” he cried, rushing up to her. Before he was halfway there, a grimy hand stopped him.

He stumbled, trying to regain his balance.

“Back off, kid,” growled one of the thugs. Before his eyes, Benoit’s mother started hacking up

vomit—then blood. She fell to her knees, the men letting her go out of shock. She spat up blood and bile, insides spilling onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, she made a horrible choking noise. She clawed at her throat, complexion contorted with pain and desperation. She looked at Benoit, gave a final gasp for air, then slumped over in a pool of her own blood.

“NO!” screamed Benoit, pushing towards the body. The men were too strong. They held him in

place, firm and unmoving. Resigned, he fell to the concrete. Tears poured from his eyes, dripping onto the cobblestones. The tears began to come quicker, like a river picking up speed before cascading over a waterfall. Them men silently walked away, taking the corpse of his beloved mother. He didn’t care. How could he care about anything when his world had been shattered? He cried for a long time, weeping for the only person who had ever loved him beside a pool of muddy blood and vomit.

 

Rain splashed into the streets of Paris. A carriage driven by two soaking horses bumped down the road, relatively isolated. The sky was the telltale black of night, and murky clouds obscured the stars. Valentine looked out the carriage’s window at the gloomy scene.

 

“Where are they keeping him?” Valentine asked.

“Madame Bouchet’s Asylum. It should be another ten minutes up the road.

Valentine rested her head on Maximillian’s shoulder. She pulled her blanket tighter, combating

the cold air that crept through the carriage doors. As they rode, her mind drifted to her father. She felt like he didn’t deserve what he’d gotten. The poor man had completely snapped, or so they’d said. Not an ounce of reason in his head. She couldn’t help feeling like it was her fault. He had been watching everyone he loved dying by his wife’s hand, then forced to betray her and turn her in. Not only that, but he had returned to see his only son dead by the woman’s hand. She knew it was irrational, but still that seed of guilt remained. Why had she been the only one to survive? Her mother and brother had perished and her father had lost his mind, but Valentine was perfectly whole, untouched by the destructive hand of the Count of Monte Cristo. What had she done to deserve such a life? The man she loved, all the money in the world, and a powerful friend in a high place.

“Max, have you ever wondered why we survived?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone else—Morcef, Edward, Danglars—lost everything. They’re either dead or as good as,

and here we are, free as a bird. What if we don’t deserve this life? What if we’re just… lucky?”

Max was silent for a few moments before answering. 

“Yes. I wonder. Every day, I wonder. When

I wake up every morning, I think about why we’re still alive. In the wee hours when the light is too dim to see by, I ponder. I ponder if we just got lucky. If we’ve only been spared because the almighty forgot to see to us.” He paused, lost in thought. Valentine felt him kiss her head. “I’m not complaining,” he continued. “I have you, after all.” Valentine felt the words warm her soul. They chased away the memories that had been haunting her and left only love. Truly, how could she have lived without him?

Maximillian was certainly the only thing that kept her from joining her father in the asylum.

“Thank you,” she whispered. The words contained her gratitude for him. And a plea asking him

to keep being him. Just Max. That was enough.

A few minutes later, they arrived in front of a tall, grey building. It was tall, square, and ugly with

a massive bell tower at the top. Rain poured down, and a flash of lightning cracked across the sky.. As they stepped out into the rain and started towards the building, the coachman providing an umbrella, Valentine kept a grip on Maximillian’s arm. She wasn’t sure what state her father was in. Would he be able to talk to them? Would he even recognize them? She shivered, pushing the thought out of her mind. At the front of the building, there was a desk, at which sat a short, stubby woman. Papers littered the desk, and she was bent over a ledger when the trio entered. The sound of the door shocked her alert. She stood up and plastered a smile on her toadlike face.

“Hello, and welcome to Madame Bouchet’s Asylum for the Mentally Impaired! How may I assist you?”

Valentine looked at her, an impropritous look of shock in her eyes. The walls were a bleak grey,

and the dark hallway that led beyond the desk was unlit. “I’ll wait here for you, m’lord,” said the

coachman as he collapsed the umbrella and took a position at the grey doors.

“We’d like to visit M. Villefort,” Maximillian explained. A greedy smile split Madame Bouchet’s

face upon these words.

“Wonderful, wonderful! If you’ll just sign these papers…” she handed Max a few papers from a

drawer and a pen. He used the desk to sign, and handed the documents back to Madame Bouchet.

“The visitation fee is fifty francs, if you’d like to pay for that now, or sixty if you pay after the

tour.” Valentine was too stunned by the dank chamber that she didn’t immediately register the

implications of this.

“Fifty francs! But that’s—”

“It’s fine,” Max insisted. He squeezed her arm, and she realized that he was right. They had

inordinate measures of wealth. Fifty francs wasn’t as much of a scandal as it would have been for her not so long ago.

He paid the visitation fee, and Madame Bouchet reached under her desk, pulling out a torch from a large chest and replacing it with the money. She lit the torch with a match, and beckoned for them to follow.

The asylum was a maze. Ladders and stairways twisted upwards and downwards, while

needlessly confusing passageways turned about like a snake in a knot. Madame Bouchet navigated the corridors confidently, however, and Valentine had no choice but to trust her direction. 

 

She led the couple up a flight of stairs, then into a room with several torches on the walls, casting dancing shadows on the gloomy room. There was a pair of chairs in front of a wooden table that ran from wall to wall. A glass  pane ran from the surface of the ceiling. The other side of the room was identical, with a similar chair and a heavy door with a metal bolt.

 

“Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment,” said the woman. She closed the door, and footsteps echoed, growing fainter with each one. Max led Valentine over to the table and sat in one of the chairs. 

Valentine sat down next to him, her death grip holding firm as ever.

“Do you think he will still recognize me? After all that’s happened?”

“Of course he will. He can’t be too damaged. I’ve seen worse.”

“You have?”

Max’s expression grew dark. “Yes. And trust me, your father is not as bad as some I’ve seen.”

All of a sudden, Valentine burst into tears. “You really think so, Max? What if he doesn’t

recognize me? What if he’s already too far gone?”

“Valentine, your father was always so logical, so reasoning. Do you think he could have really

lost it that much? He’s a little wonky, but I’m sure he remembers you with clarity.”

Valentine buried her face into his shoulder, sobbing.

“Compose yourself, love,” Max chided. “Villefort will surely be here any moment.

He was right. Only a few moments later, a click sounded from the door. Valentine hurriedly dried

her tears and sat up straight. The thick door swung open, and Valentine’s father stepped into the room.

 

Benoit sat in a dark alley in that was between two large government buildings. It had been almost a year since his mother had died. He lay in a puddle of muddy rainwater, and his sniffles bounced off the stone walls of the alleyway, echoing into the busy street. Mere feet away, people of all shapes and sizes bustled around towards their respective jobs. None paid heed to the defenseless child that was curled up in

 

the alley. He sat there, waiting. It wasn’t long before a naïve girl who looked to be about twenty took notice of her. Her clothes said that she was wealthy, perhaps a daughter of one of the lesser nobles. She looked at Benoit, her natural instincts as a Christian telling her to throw him a coin, and her instincts as an aristocrat telling her to ignore him.

“A penny for the lost, Miss?” He put every ounce of helpless boy that he had—which was a

lot—into his gaze as he met her eyes. Suddenly overcome with pity, she walked into the alley and knelt down beside him. No, miss princess. You’ve just made the wrong choice. He longed to yell at her, scream at her to run, run away to where there were more people. She didn’t.

“You poor boy. You must be starving. Here, take this.” The woman handed him a coin that glinted gold in the weak light. An entire franc! This girl was rich, indeed!

Benoit didn’t take the coin. His eyes welled up with tears, and he whispered, “I’m sorry.” A flash

of confusion darted across her face, but she didn’t have a chance to speak before a large wooden club fell on her head. She fell over, and DeStan, a hulking man with more hair than brains stuffed her into a burlap sack. Benoit stood up, looking at the sack. He wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t have to. In the understreets, you did what you needed to if you wanted to survive.

Benoit stood and followed DeStan, along with two other thugs that had sack of their own back to

the Dying Stag. The Dying Stag was not only the cheapest pub in town, but also the hottest black market in the city. Lestor prided himself on that.

DeStan lead the way through the backdoor and into the second floor of the pub. They passed a

room full of shelves that seedy men were picking through and made their way to Lestor’s office. Lestor was in a corner with a bottle of wine. “How many today, DeStan?” Lestor asked after they’d entered. “Three,” replied DeStan in a voice that fit his stature—big, threatening, and dumb. Lestor frowned and set the bottle down on his cluttered desk. “Let me have a word with the kid.”

A shiver rattled Benoit’s spine. “a word” usually wasn’t a good thing when it came to Lestor.

Lestor curled his finger, beckoning Benoit closer.

“Three is your worst yet.”

“I’m trying sir, please let me—”

“Tut, tut, tut. Talking when I didn’t allow you, less than your required daily loot… looks like

someone’s looking to end up back on the streets.” Benoit was silent. “That’s four days in a row. Got anything to say for yourself?”

“I swear I’ll do better, sir.”

“That’s what you said last time. Something tells me that you won’t.” Benoit hung his head and

crossed his fingers. “I’m sorry, but I can’t keep an employee who doesn’t carry his weight. Goodbye,

Benoit.”

“But sir, if you’d just—”

“Benoit, I don’t like it when people who I’m not paying are taking up my time.”

“Sir, I—”

“You’d better get out of here before I decide it’s too dangerous to leave you alive.”

Benoit knew what was good for him. He saw himself out, and found a gutter to cry in. For real,

this time.

 

Villefort sat down in the chair. His back was straight, and his face forward. His eyes were

 

completely blank.

“Father?” Valentine cautiously asked. Upon speaking, his eyes snapped to Valentine’s face. There,

in his eyes, Valentine saw a flicker of recognition. A spark of memory behind those dead eyes. “Father,

It’s me, Valentine! Do you remember?”

The man kept staring at her intently, gazes locked. “V-Valentine?” He whispered. “Is that…? Are

you…?”

“Yes father! It’s Valentine, remember?” Valentine felt her heart leap at his words. Perhaps the

madness could be cured!

“Valentine, you’ve grown so. I last remember seeing you as only a child. Only a child.”

“Father, can’t you remember?” she grabbed Maximillian’s arm. “Do you remember

Maximillian?’

Villefort’s eyes stayed on her. “You are the child who was so fond of me all those years ago… Do you remember me?”

“Of course I do, father, you’re—”

“Yes.” A distracted smile played across his lips. “Yes, the child from the Duman estate. All… All

those years ago…” A pang of dread suddenly washed through Valentine. She had remembered her father recounting his finest case at a dinner party. He had been visiting a cousin’s estate when a murderer seeking justice for a slight that the Dumans had committed, causing the murderer’s family its reputation and finances to crumble. A young child named Valentina had been killed, an innocent victim of a meaningless crime.

Valentine saw the realization dawn in her father’s face. “You—you died. I saw your body. I saw it

lying there, like an innocent maiden. You—you…” He trailed off, his eyes defocusing as he lost himself in thought. Then a new emotion took hold of him. Fear. Valentine could see it clear as day, red hot terror boiling in his soul.

“Ghost!” he screamed. He backed into the wall, hatred and fear in his expression. “You are a

specter sent from beyond the grave to torment me! Stay away! Stay away!” He began making a cross with

his fingers, a glyph to ward off evil.

“Father, It’s me. Your daughter! Father, come back to me!” She stood up and pressed her hands to

the glass. “Father…” A tear leaked out and slid down her cheek. Villefort was now curled in the corner, whimpering and rasping prayers in vain. “Father! Villefort! Listen to me!”

A firm hand pulled her away. “It’s time we go,” Maximillian whispered.

“No! You can’t make me!” She clung to the table, desperate to get to him. As she struggled, the

door banged open.

“Visitation time is—Oh.” Madame Bouchet glanced around the room, and Villefort, crouched

against the wall and Valentine, desperate to get to her father.

“We were just leaving, Madame,” Maximillian said. Valentine looked up, and saw that he had just as many tears in his eyes as she did in hers. She blew one last kiss to her father and let herself be led away.

The ride home was silent. Valentine thought about her father, about her friends, and about little

Edward. None of them deserved that they’d gotten. But had they found peace? She hoped so. She knew that there was a place in heaven reserved for her little brother. For all of them. Sitting in the carriage with Maximillian, she finally found peace. In herself, in the world around her, and in those who had died. The world brought pain. But after the pain, there is peace. The divine sensation gave her confidence in life, in

redemption. And looking up at Max, she knew he felt it too.

“Val, why don’t we just live our life? We can start a new chapter, you and I. One full of

confidence, love… and peace.”

“I’d like that,” she replied, snuggling closer against him. “Peace.” That was about when they ran

over a child.

 

Benoit stood up and rubbed his eyes. He’d fallen asleep, and now dawn was coming. The red sun was showing its first rays in the east. It was time to get moving. It wasn’t his first time on the streets.

 

He’d spent most of the last year begging. The best place was on the corner of Redding and Cross. It was a richer section of town, but none of the inhabitants were so high and mighty that they couldn’t spare a franc for a starving child.

As the day wore on, he began to grow more and more discouraged. Hardly anyone was paying

him heed, and he had been thinking about his lack of a job. That was the third time he’d been fired. He just wasn’t good enough. Perhaps he’d never get off the streets.

Night came all too quickly, and a gruff police officer told him to move along. He begrudgingly

trudged towards the gutter he’d slept in last night, but then paused. Slowly, very slowly, he began to make his decision. He turned towards the other side of town, towards the asylum. Some thieves called it the “splatter house” because of what one did there. When a thief or beggar lost his will to live, he went to the

splatter house. It wasn’t the tallest building in London, but the woman who ran the place knew the underground, and quietly disposed of the bodies. Nobody really spoke of the splatter house. He’d heard a couple of miscreants reminiscing about a friend who’d gone, and that was why he knew about it. He wasn’t far now. Benoit looked up at the looming structure, bell tower glistening and ominous high windows. There it was. Benoit said a silent prayer to God. If he was even there anymore. 

“I’m coming for you, mother,” he whispered. A few tears dripped down his face and a sob racked his frame.

“We can finally be together again.” He took a step onto the street.

Then everything went black.

Benoit awoke to a sterile room and fuzzy voices. He couldn’t make out everything, but he could

hear some of it.

A woman—young, by the sound of it said, “… reminds me of Edward.”

A man responded, “Not sure I…”

Benoit couldn’t concentrate any longer. He hit the pillow, and darkness consumed him once

again.

The second time, Benoit thought he saw someone. A worried face of a woman hovering over him.

Then he felt something prick his arm. And he fell back asleep.

Benoit faded in and out of consciousness for a while. He wasn’t sure how many times he’d woken up, but he hadn’t been totally lucid on any of them. After what seemed like days, he finally opened his

eyes, to see a young woman, the same one from before, smiling at him.

“Wake up, my child. It’s a new day!”

 

 

Edited March 15 by TheFrugalWizard

[The Stormfather He/Him]

um another random warrior cats scene. I got a lot of these floating around in my brain. Still don't need much context.

They are cats, they are in a rocky area, and they are part of a group called DarkClan.

Spoiler

Grayclaw quickly licked his shoulder as the moon rose high into the sky. The DarkClan camp was mostly quiet, save for the scuffling of play-fightning kits in the nursery and a few of the elders snoring.

He rose to his paws, padding across the rough ground towards the SpikeStone, the large boulder where the leader, Weatherstar, adressed the Clan. He walked past it, sheathing and unsheathing his claws nervously. 

He glanced around himself, and when he noticed that none of his clanmates were looking at him, he dove into the undergrowth and quietly slunk away from camp.

The scents of the rocky woods that DarkClan made their home filled his nostrils and mouth, and he continued walking towards the moon, shining high above them. It was the half-moon, so Emberfur was gone for the night, as she always did to listen to the voices of the ancestors of DarkClan. This time she had brought Thymepaw, her apprentice.

It was lonely around camp without Thymepaw. Grayclaw had been her mentor and teacher, assigned to teach her the warrior code and how to hunt and fight for her clan until a sigh in the woods had told Emberfur that the young apprentice was to be her successor as the voice of the ancestors for the clan.

Now, Grayclaw was alone, not having any other real friends among the cats of DarkClan, except for Emberfur, but she was also gone.

Then there was Gorsepelt, but no one else in the Clan had seen her since the incident with the rats.

Grayclaw however often heard the voice of his former mate, softly guiding him or scolding him when he did something wrong, or offering strength and determination to the gray warrior during times when he needed it.

Grayclaw popped out from under a large hawthorn bush, shaking his pelt to rid it of the leaves and dirt it had picked up. He glanced around. He had emerged into a small moonlit clearing, where he could barely make out a faint set of pawprints in the grass.

He walked up to them suspicously, not knowing whether it was trespassers or someone out for a stroll. He pressed his nose to one of the pawprints, inhaling deeply.

Not DarkClan scent.

Not at all.

It was a stench that he found foul to the highest degree. The scent of carrion and dead animals. The scent of a cat who was not DarkClan, but not in any of the clans, who lived in the wastes and stole garbage to feed themselves. Usually, rogues fought like foxes, the garbage darkening their hearts. Funny, they say that DarkClan's hearts are dark from the northern winds, yet we all say that the rogues have darkened hearts. As if we know what that even means. He padded after the pawprints, quickly spotting the remains of an eaten mouse.

They had stolen prey! This was DarkClan territory, and no rogue was allowed to steal food, even in the rich seasons!

He sniffed again, following the scent a few pawsteps.

"Looking for someone?" A rasping mew sounded behind Grayclaw.

"This is DarkClan land. You cannot be here." He snarled, tail twitching in anger.

"Says who?" A soft brown she-cat stepped into the clearing, a clearly skinny and nimble cat who lacked the strength to fight a seasoned warrior like Grayclaw.

"Says me, and the rest of my clan." The warrior stepped forwards threateningly.

"Well I say I can hunt here." She glanced at him, moonlight glinting her eyes.

"Well you are a single cat, and I've trained all my life to fight rogues like you. Get out of here, or I will attack." Graycalw snarled loudly, stepping forwards more, going back into the small clearing.

"Good thing I'm not alone." She purred as two huge paws slammed Grayclaw's back, leaving deep scrapes in his fur.

He yelped, then spun and lashed out with his claws at whoever was behind him. His paw slammed into the cheek of a dark-furred cat, who had scars across his hind legs. He then pounced at him, claws biting deeply into his shoulder and forcing him backwards.

"You think you scare me?" The second rogue asked in a deep, rasping voice.

Grayclaw dashed forwards at him, raking one claw down. The rogue quickly backed away, Grayclaw's claws passing a hair away from his nose. The rogue charged at him, using no tactic save for his brute strength.

The nimble warrior leaped aside, raking his claws along the rogue's side. He let out a hiss of pain.

"Sandy, help me fight him!" He snarled at the light brown she cat.

Sandy sniffed. "Good luck, Cliff." She turned away, walking across the clearing.

Grayclaw leaped at Cliff, who yelped and ran after Sandy,

"Stay out!" He yowled, then began to pad slowly back towards camp, the scrapes on his back letting out pangs of pain.

When he arrived at camp, he could tell that no one had heard his fight, as not a thing stirred in the camp. He walked into the warrior's den, crawling into his nest and lying down to sleep.

I need you, Gorsepelt. I need my mate, I need the one cat devoted enough to me to believe me that I was sick. I need the one cat who trusted me.

Grayclan slowly fell into a deep sleep, and suddenly found himself back in the moonlit clearing, though now the moon was full.

"Grayclaw, you should look farther than your ally who is gone. You need someone to be with you, stand alongside you? Find someone. Don't be wishing that Gorsepelt comes back." A voice sounded behind him and he turned, but he didn't see any cat. "There is a danger, to you, to Darkclan. Explain it to them."

"What's the danger?" He questioned, hoping that the apparition of his dream would be trustworthy, although according to everyone else who had heard any of the old stories, they were.

"You already know." The voice spoke now from in front of him, yet he still couldn't see who was speaking.

"I don't! I need help with this!"

"Do you not think I have not given you help? There is a way through the danger, remember." This Grayclaw heard something in the voice, something familiar.

"Gorsepelt? Did you make it? Are you... in the stars?" A claw of sadness pierced his mew.

"There is danger. To fight it, you will need to find an unlikely ally."

"Who?" Grayclaw asked, but he could tell he was awaking.

He lifted his head, realizing it was morning.

"Grayclaw, take Dripflower and patrol the borders!" Thistlethorn called from his place beside the Spike-Rock.

 

Over the day, Grayclaw's thought were racing about his dream. What was the danger? Who was the unlikely ally? Surely not someone from his clan, but then, who  else did he even know? He patrolled the borders with Dripflowed over most of the day, and was quite relaxed when he arrived back at camp, since Thymepaw and Emberfur were back from their journey.

He stepped inside the pair's den, blurting out everything that had happened the last night.

 

"Unlikely ally..." Thymepaw repeated.

"Danger..." Emberfur said worriedly.

"Do you have any idea what the dream meant? What's the danger?" Grayclaw asked nervously.

"Grayclaw, think for a moment." Emberfur said. "You encounter rogues, then get a dream speaking of danger. Think. The rogues must have been part of a larger group trying to encroach on our land."

"So who is the unlikely ally?" Grayclaw asked with a sigh.

"I have no idea." Emberfur replied.

Grayclaw left the den, deciding to walk out to the clearing again, since it clearly had some kind of relevance.

Then he spotted a cat sitting in the clearing.

"Sandy!"

She turned to him. "Ugh, you again."

"So, no friends this time?" Grayclaw asked. "You know I can fight you off."

"I'm not looking for a fight. I'm actually supposed to be threatening you."

"Wh-"

"I don't want to though. Our group, well, we want to steal this land. Pretty easy to figure out. The thing is, DarkClan has fought off oruges before and the way you fought against Cliff, well, he's a terrible fighter but, I don't think we can win. So, I'm here to say that when they arrive, please don't kill them. I beg of you. Fight them off, but don't kill them."

"What, you think we're that awful? We don't kill. It's in the code. We don't kill unless absolutely necessary." Grawclaw looked shocked.

"Good. I... I... I need you to... Um... well..."

"Get out of my territory, Sandy." He growled.

"I do want to warn you, they will attack within the week, and they will attack powerfully. We are nearly twenty strong."

Grayclew gaped. That was more than the warriors in DarkClan for certain, though the apprentices and elders could fight if they had to, considering the rogues didn't have formal training, but.. twenty?

"Don't let them drive you out. If they do, Tire will become even more greedy. He'll want the entire mountain later, even the wastes and and the streets. Just... don't lose."

PART 2 COMING SOON HOPEFULLY NEED TO ACTUALLY WRITE IT!!!!

 

[RoyalBeeMage he/him]

this is a insanly usefull idea of a thread. could i please give a prompt and ask for one in return?

the prompt i would like to give is At a lively pool party on a scorching summer afternoon, a group of friends decides to play a game of truth or dare. As tensions rise and secrets start to spill, they realize that some truths can't be hidden, especially when the heat is on. Write a scene where the game takes an unexpected turn, revealing more than anyone bargained for.

[TheFrugalWizard he/him]

1 hour ago, RoyalBeeMage said:

this is a insanly usefull idea of a thread. could i please give a prompt and ask for one in return?

the prompt i would like to give is At a lively pool party on a scorching summer afternoon, a group of friends decides to play a game of truth or dare. As tensions rise and secrets start to spill, they realize that some truths can't be hidden, especially when the heat is on. Write a scene where the game takes an unexpected turn, revealing more than anyone bargained for.

Here's your prompt:

The word "the" has just been trademarked on pain of death.

If you want an extra challenge, don't use "the" in the story at all!

[The Stormfather He/Him]

Here's a prompt : A volcano that is ruled by a chicken.

Seems like it'll make a very profound, insightful story.

[ΨιτιsτηεΒέsτ he/him]

19 hours ago, TheFrugalWizard said:

I actually have some writing of my own to share. I don't know if anyone here has read The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (very good read, I recommend highly), this is a continuation of the book. For those of you who haven't, see the summary below.

Summary

  Hide contents

The story begins with a young man named Edmond Dantes. He isn't important to what I wrote, but he's the main character. Anyways, basically some people sent him to jail and when he escapes he wants revenge. Now, two of the people had children, named Maximillian and Valentine. They are in love, but it's forbidden love since Max is much lower class then Valentine. At the end of the book, they get together, and that's where I pick up. 

Important notes: Benoit is not in the original book, he is a character of my own invention.

This story takes place in post-Napoleon France, specifically in Paris.

Villefort is Valentine's dad, who went insane after his wife committed suicide.

On to the story! Apologize for the text all in bold. I transfered from a google doc, and it won't let me un-bold it. It's better of you transfer it to a google doc or something, because it's weird to read it like that. Also apologies for the random line breaks. Again - imported from Google docs.

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Benoit was supposed to be asleep. His mother always got angry with him when he came out after bedtime. Benoit, however, didn’t see the logic in this at all. Why should she get to stay up? He wasn’t some kid anymore! He was nine now. He could take care of himself. As Benoit snuck out of the room he and his mother shared, he heard voices from the front door. Curious, he crept towards the sounds. His mother was talking with two tall, finely dressed men. He carefully positioned himself so that he couldn’t be seen and listened to them speak.

“…can’t extend it any longer,” one of the men was saying. “We are going to have to ask you to

leave.”

Leave? Leave for where? Benoit’s brow wrinkled with concern. He had lived in this little

apartment his whole life! Where would they go to?

“Very well, I’ll just—” his mother began, but was overtaken by a fit of coughing. She wheezed

and panted, doubling over in an effort to circumvent the pain. The two men stood over her, watching with indifferent expressions. When the episode had subsided, she continued. “I’ll just go get my things. We’ll be out of here by morning,” she finished in a whisper. Frightened, Benoit slipped back into his room, where he slept fitfully, dreaming of strange unknowns and wild lands.

Benoit awoke the next morning to his mothers bedraggled face. “Come, Benoit. We must leave at once.”

A spike of alarm coursed through Benoit. “Go where?”

His mother smiled at him. Young though he was, Benoit could see the fatigue in her expression.

“Benoit, there is a world of adventure out there. It’s our job to go and explore it.”

Benoit clung to his mother’s hand as they walked out onto the streets of the Paris slums. His

mother kept her head down, covered in a shawl as they walked, trudging through the grimy gutters for what seemed like hours. Benoit was equally terrified and exhausted by the time they stopped. His mother, without warning, slowed to a halt. He was so worn out that he didn’t ask her why. He sat down on the street, his hand releasing his mother.

It was only as he sat, leaning against a moss-covered wall that he saw why she had stopped. Four men, dirty and tough, were blocking the alleyway. One of them was advancing toward his mother, a sneer on his filthy face. 

“Well, hello there. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” the man said. Benoit could tell that what he said was sarcastic, but he wasn’t sure he understood what the man meant. Frightened, Benoit slowly stood up. Even as he did, three more men emerged from the shadows, blocking the only other way out. Benoit could see why his mother hadn’t run.

“Benoit,” his mother said in a cold, demanding voice. He’d never heard her speak in that voice,

unless it was an emergency. Frightened, Benoit stood, rooted to the hard cobblestones. “Benoit.” His mother spoke with more volume and firmness now. She was desperate.

“Ma?” he replied, voice wavering.

“Benoit, you have to run. Find your father and tell him to come as fast as he can—” She was cut off by the man who had spoken earlier.

“That won’t be needed, Benoit. You can stay right here.” He finished with a laugh like an old dog.

Before he could move, one of the men grabbed him from behind, clamping a hand over his mouth and pinning his hands behind his back. His mother watched with angry eyes. 

“Now, little miss princess. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“No!” she screamed, backing away. Men were still blocking the alleyway, and one of them

grabbed her arms, holding her fast. A wide, greedy smile on his face, the first man approached.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in a mock baby voice. “Scared of a little… playtime?” he switched

back to his gravelly voice.

“Stop! No!” Benoit could see his mother’s desperation. “Get off of me!”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s an option,” replied the man. He placed a meaty hand on her side, a

wicked smile upon his face. Then, his mother started coughing. They were raspy, painful coughs that made Benoit cringe to hear. The man backed off, surprised. His mother didn’t stop. He could tell that this was worse than any previous episode she’d had.

“Mother!” he cried, rushing up to her. Before he was halfway there, a grimy hand stopped him.

He stumbled, trying to regain his balance.

“Back off, kid,” growled one of the thugs. Before his eyes, Benoit’s mother started hacking up

vomit—then blood. She fell to her knees, the men letting her go out of shock. She spat up blood and bile, insides spilling onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, she made a horrible choking noise. She clawed at her throat, complexion contorted with pain and desperation. She looked at Benoit, gave a final gasp for air, then slumped over in a pool of her own blood.

“NO!” screamed Benoit, pushing towards the body. The men were too strong. They held him in

place, firm and unmoving. Resigned, he fell to the concrete. Tears poured from his eyes, dripping onto the cobblestones. The tears began to come quicker, like a river picking up speed before cascading over a waterfall. Them men silently walked away, taking the corpse of his beloved mother. He didn’t care. How could he care about anything when his world had been shattered? He cried for a long time, weeping for the only person who had ever loved him beside a pool of muddy blood and vomit.

 

Rain splashed into the streets of Paris. A carriage driven by two soaking horses bumped down the road, relatively isolated. The sky was the telltale black of night, and murky clouds obscured the stars. Valentine looked out the carriage’s window at the gloomy scene.

 

“Where are they keeping him?” Valentine asked.

“Madame Bouchet’s Asylum. It should be another ten minutes up the road.

Valentine rested her head on Maximillian’s shoulder. She pulled her blanket tighter, combating

the cold air that crept through the carriage doors. As they rode, her mind drifted to her father. She felt like he didn’t deserve what he’d gotten. The poor man had completely snapped, or so they’d said. Not an ounce of reason in his head. She couldn’t help feeling like it was her fault. He had been watching everyone he loved dying by his wife’s hand, then forced to betray her and turn her in. Not only that, but he had returned to see his only son dead by the woman’s hand. She knew it was irrational, but still that seed of guilt remained. Why had she been the only one to survive? Her mother and brother had perished and her father had lost his mind, but Valentine was perfectly whole, untouched by the destructive hand of the Count of Monte Cristo. What had she done to deserve such a life? The man she loved, all the money in the world, and a powerful friend in a high place.

“Max, have you ever wondered why we survived?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone else—Morcef, Edward, Danglars—lost everything. They’re either dead or as good as,

and here we are, free as a bird. What if we don’t deserve this life? What if we’re just… lucky?”

Max was silent for a few moments before answering. 

“Yes. I wonder. Every day, I wonder. When

I wake up every morning, I think about why we’re still alive. In the wee hours when the light is too dim to see by, I ponder. I ponder if we just got lucky. If we’ve only been spared because the almighty forgot to see to us.” He paused, lost in thought. Valentine felt him kiss her head. “I’m not complaining,” he continued. “I have you, after all.” Valentine felt the words warm her soul. They chased away the memories that had been haunting her and left only love. Truly, how could she have lived without him?

Maximillian was certainly the only thing that kept her from joining her father in the asylum.

“Thank you,” she whispered. The words contained her gratitude for him. And a plea asking him

to keep being him. Just Max. That was enough.

A few minutes later, they arrived in front of a tall, grey building. It was tall, square, and ugly with

a massive bell tower at the top. Rain poured down, and a flash of lightning cracked across the sky.. As they stepped out into the rain and started towards the building, the coachman providing an umbrella, Valentine kept a grip on Maximillian’s arm. She wasn’t sure what state her father was in. Would he be able to talk to them? Would he even recognize them? She shivered, pushing the thought out of her mind. At the front of the building, there was a desk, at which sat a short, stubby woman. Papers littered the desk, and she was bent over a ledger when the trio entered. The sound of the door shocked her alert. She stood up and plastered a smile on her toadlike face.

“Hello, and welcome to Madame Bouchet’s Asylum for the Mentally Impaired! How may I assist you?”

Valentine looked at her, an impropritous look of shock in her eyes. The walls were a bleak grey,

and the dark hallway that led beyond the desk was unlit. “I’ll wait here for you, m’lord,” said the

coachman as he collapsed the umbrella and took a position at the grey doors.

“We’d like to visit M. Villefort,” Maximillian explained. A greedy smile split Madame Bouchet’s

face upon these words.

“Wonderful, wonderful! If you’ll just sign these papers…” she handed Max a few papers from a

drawer and a pen. He used the desk to sign, and handed the documents back to Madame Bouchet.

“The visitation fee is fifty francs, if you’d like to pay for that now, or sixty if you pay after the

tour.” Valentine was too stunned by the dank chamber that she didn’t immediately register the

implications of this.

“Fifty francs! But that’s—”

“It’s fine,” Max insisted. He squeezed her arm, and she realized that he was right. They had

inordinate measures of wealth. Fifty francs wasn’t as much of a scandal as it would have been for her not so long ago.

He paid the visitation fee, and Madame Bouchet reached under her desk, pulling out a torch from a large chest and replacing it with the money. She lit the torch with a match, and beckoned for them to follow.

The asylum was a maze. Ladders and stairways twisted upwards and downwards, while

needlessly confusing passageways turned about like a snake in a knot. Madame Bouchet navigated the corridors confidently, however, and Valentine had no choice but to trust her direction. 

 

She led the couple up a flight of stairs, then into a room with several torches on the walls, casting dancing shadows on the gloomy room. There was a pair of chairs in front of a wooden table that ran from wall to wall. A glass  pane ran from the surface of the ceiling. The other side of the room was identical, with a similar chair and a heavy door with a metal bolt.

 

“Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment,” said the woman. She closed the door, and footsteps echoed, growing fainter with each one. Max led Valentine over to the table and sat in one of the chairs. 

Valentine sat down next to him, her death grip holding firm as ever.

“Do you think he will still recognize me? After all that’s happened?”

“Of course he will. He can’t be too damaged. I’ve seen worse.”

“You have?”

Max’s expression grew dark. “Yes. And trust me, your father is not as bad as some I’ve seen.”

All of a sudden, Valentine burst into tears. “You really think so, Max? What if he doesn’t

recognize me? What if he’s already too far gone?”

“Valentine, your father was always so logical, so reasoning. Do you think he could have really

lost it that much? He’s a little wonky, but I’m sure he remembers you with clarity.”

Valentine buried her face into his shoulder, sobbing.

“Compose yourself, love,” Max chided. “Villefort will surely be here any moment.

He was right. Only a few moments later, a click sounded from the door. Valentine hurriedly dried

her tears and sat up straight. The thick door swung open, and Valentine’s father stepped into the room.

 

Benoit sat in a dark alley in that was between two large government buildings. It had been almost a year since his mother had died. He lay in a puddle of muddy rainwater, and his sniffles bounced off the stone walls of the alleyway, echoing into the busy street. Mere feet away, people of all shapes and sizes bustled around towards their respective jobs. None paid heed to the defenseless child that was curled up in

 

the alley. He sat there, waiting. It wasn’t long before a naïve girl who looked to be about twenty took notice of her. Her clothes said that she was wealthy, perhaps a daughter of one of the lesser nobles. She looked at Benoit, her natural instincts as a Christian telling her to throw him a coin, and her instincts as an aristocrat telling her to ignore him.

“A penny for the lost, Miss?” He put every ounce of helpless boy that he had—which was a

lot—into his gaze as he met her eyes. Suddenly overcome with pity, she walked into the alley and knelt down beside him. No, miss princess. You’ve just made the wrong choice. He longed to yell at her, scream at her to run, run away to where there were more people. She didn’t.

“You poor boy. You must be starving. Here, take this.” The woman handed him a coin that glinted gold in the weak light. An entire franc! This girl was rich, indeed!

Benoit didn’t take the coin. His eyes welled up with tears, and he whispered, “I’m sorry.” A flash

of confusion darted across her face, but she didn’t have a chance to speak before a large wooden club fell on her head. She fell over, and DeStan, a hulking man with more hair than brains stuffed her into a burlap sack. Benoit stood up, looking at the sack. He wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t have to. In the understreets, you did what you needed to if you wanted to survive.

Benoit stood and followed DeStan, along with two other thugs that had sack of their own back to

the Dying Stag. The Dying Stag was not only the cheapest pub in town, but also the hottest black market in the city. Lestor prided himself on that.

DeStan lead the way through the backdoor and into the second floor of the pub. They passed a

room full of shelves that seedy men were picking through and made their way to Lestor’s office. Lestor was in a corner with a bottle of wine. “How many today, DeStan?” Lestor asked after they’d entered. “Three,” replied DeStan in a voice that fit his stature—big, threatening, and dumb. Lestor frowned and set the bottle down on his cluttered desk. “Let me have a word with the kid.”

A shiver rattled Benoit’s spine. “a word” usually wasn’t a good thing when it came to Lestor.

Lestor curled his finger, beckoning Benoit closer.

“Three is your worst yet.”

“I’m trying sir, please let me—”

“Tut, tut, tut. Talking when I didn’t allow you, less than your required daily loot… looks like

someone’s looking to end up back on the streets.” Benoit was silent. “That’s four days in a row. Got anything to say for yourself?”

“I swear I’ll do better, sir.”

“That’s what you said last time. Something tells me that you won’t.” Benoit hung his head and

crossed his fingers. “I’m sorry, but I can’t keep an employee who doesn’t carry his weight. Goodbye,

Benoit.”

“But sir, if you’d just—”

“Benoit, I don’t like it when people who I’m not paying are taking up my time.”

“Sir, I—”

“You’d better get out of here before I decide it’s too dangerous to leave you alive.”

Benoit knew what was good for him. He saw himself out, and found a gutter to cry in. For real,

this time.

 

Villefort sat down in the chair. His back was straight, and his face forward. His eyes were

 

completely blank.

“Father?” Valentine cautiously asked. Upon speaking, his eyes snapped to Valentine’s face. There,

in his eyes, Valentine saw a flicker of recognition. A spark of memory behind those dead eyes. “Father,

It’s me, Valentine! Do you remember?”

The man kept staring at her intently, gazes locked. “V-Valentine?” He whispered. “Is that…? Are

you…?”

“Yes father! It’s Valentine, remember?” Valentine felt her heart leap at his words. Perhaps the

madness could be cured!

“Valentine, you’ve grown so. I last remember seeing you as only a child. Only a child.”

“Father, can’t you remember?” she grabbed Maximillian’s arm. “Do you remember

Maximillian?’

Villefort’s eyes stayed on her. “You are the child who was so fond of me all those years ago… Do you remember me?”

“Of course I do, father, you’re—”

“Yes.” A distracted smile played across his lips. “Yes, the child from the Duman estate. All… All

those years ago…” A pang of dread suddenly washed through Valentine. She had remembered her father recounting his finest case at a dinner party. He had been visiting a cousin’s estate when a murderer seeking justice for a slight that the Dumans had committed, causing the murderer’s family its reputation and finances to crumble. A young child named Valentina had been killed, an innocent victim of a meaningless crime.

Valentine saw the realization dawn in her father’s face. “You—you died. I saw your body. I saw it

lying there, like an innocent maiden. You—you…” He trailed off, his eyes defocusing as he lost himself in thought. Then a new emotion took hold of him. Fear. Valentine could see it clear as day, red hot terror boiling in his soul.

“Ghost!” he screamed. He backed into the wall, hatred and fear in his expression. “You are a

specter sent from beyond the grave to torment me! Stay away! Stay away!” He began making a cross with

his fingers, a glyph to ward off evil.

“Father, It’s me. Your daughter! Father, come back to me!” She stood up and pressed her hands to

the glass. “Father…” A tear leaked out and slid down her cheek. Villefort was now curled in the corner, whimpering and rasping prayers in vain. “Father! Villefort! Listen to me!”

A firm hand pulled her away. “It’s time we go,” Maximillian whispered.

“No! You can’t make me!” She clung to the table, desperate to get to him. As she struggled, the

door banged open.

“Visitation time is—Oh.” Madame Bouchet glanced around the room, and Villefort, crouched

against the wall and Valentine, desperate to get to her father.

“We were just leaving, Madame,” Maximillian said. Valentine looked up, and saw that he had just as many tears in his eyes as she did in hers. She blew one last kiss to her father and let herself be led away.

The ride home was silent. Valentine thought about her father, about her friends, and about little

Edward. None of them deserved that they’d gotten. But had they found peace? She hoped so. She knew that there was a place in heaven reserved for her little brother. For all of them. Sitting in the carriage with Maximillian, she finally found peace. In herself, in the world around her, and in those who had died. The world brought pain. But after the pain, there is peace. The divine sensation gave her confidence in life, in

redemption. And looking up at Max, she knew he felt it too.

“Val, why don’t we just live our life? We can start a new chapter, you and I. One full of

confidence, love… and peace.”

“I’d like that,” she replied, snuggling closer against him. “Peace.” That was about when they ran

over a child.

 

Benoit stood up and rubbed his eyes. He’d fallen asleep, and now dawn was coming. The red sun was showing its first rays in the east. It was time to get moving. It wasn’t his first time on the streets.

 

He’d spent most of the last year begging. The best place was on the corner of Redding and Cross. It was a richer section of town, but none of the inhabitants were so high and mighty that they couldn’t spare a franc for a starving child.

As the day wore on, he began to grow more and more discouraged. Hardly anyone was paying

him heed, and he had been thinking about his lack of a job. That was the third time he’d been fired. He just wasn’t good enough. Perhaps he’d never get off the streets.

Night came all too quickly, and a gruff police officer told him to move along. He begrudgingly

trudged towards the gutter he’d slept in last night, but then paused. Slowly, very slowly, he began to make his decision. He turned towards the other side of town, towards the asylum. Some thieves called it the “splatter house” because of what one did there. When a thief or beggar lost his will to live, he went to the

splatter house. It wasn’t the tallest building in London, but the woman who ran the place knew the underground, and quietly disposed of the bodies. Nobody really spoke of the splatter house. He’d heard a couple of miscreants reminiscing about a friend who’d gone, and that was why he knew about it. He wasn’t far now. Benoit looked up at the looming structure, bell tower glistening and ominous high windows. There it was. Benoit said a silent prayer to God. If he was even there anymore. 

“I’m coming for you, mother,” he whispered. A few tears dripped down his face and a sob racked his frame.

“We can finally be together again.” He took a step onto the street.

Then everything went black.

Benoit awoke to a sterile room and fuzzy voices. He couldn’t make out everything, but he could

hear some of it.

A woman—young, by the sound of it said, “… reminds me of Edward.”

A man responded, “Not sure I…”

Benoit couldn’t concentrate any longer. He hit the pillow, and darkness consumed him once

again.

The second time, Benoit thought he saw someone. A worried face of a woman hovering over him.

Then he felt something prick his arm. And he fell back asleep.

Benoit faded in and out of consciousness for a while. He wasn’t sure how many times he’d woken up, but he hadn’t been totally lucid on any of them. After what seemed like days, he finally opened his

eyes, to see a young woman, the same one from before, smiling at him.

“Wake up, my child. It’s a new day!”

 

 

This is great!

[TheFrugalWizard he/him]

2 hours ago, ΨιτιsτηεΒέsτ said:

This is great!

Thanks :). I actually just stumbled upon some writing from years and years ago, when I was like 6. Please don't judge or take offense, I'm copying word for word from my old notebook. The title is "Two Friends Depart." It's a tradgedy.

Spoiler

Two Friends Depart

TheFrugalWizard

One day there was a boy with a cat named tigger. And the boy's name was Fred. Fred and Tigger did everything together. They even went to the bathroom and ate meals together. One day Fred took Tigger to music class. It was a disaster. In piano, Tigger ripped out the keys. Tigger knew he would get in trouble so he ran away. Fred was so upset he cried for a week. His mom tried to comfort him but it did no good. After a week of Fred crying, Tigger came home and threw 225 snowballs at him in the summer. Fred was so happy he foorgot about the broken piano and hugger Tigger as hard as he could. And Tigger's eyes popped out, but that's okay, because they were attached by springs. Just like in Tigger everything is attached by springs (which is how he got to antarctica in just one week*). Fred was startled but as life went on it became usual. Fred's mother disciplined Tigger by slapping him on the bottom and it sprang off. Also Tigger's bottom slapped momma in the face. Fred's mom jumped out of the way and Tigger flew out the window and landed on a passing truck. And that was the last time enyone heard from Tigger again. Therefore Fred cried forevermore.

*My (not 6-year-old me) note: If I remember correctly, I believe that this is where Tigger got the 225 snowballs from.

Again - I copied this word for word (with some minor grammar changes - capital letters and such) from my old notebook. I hope you enjoy it!

[RoyalBeeMage he/him]

6 hours ago, The Stormfather said:

Here's a prompt : A volcano that is ruled by a chicken.

Seems like it'll make a very profound, insightful story.

11 hours ago, TheFrugalWizard said:

Here's your prompt:

The word "the" has just been trademarked on pain of death.

If you want an extra challenge, don't use "the" in the story at all!

i will try and generate something for both of these later

 

2 hours ago, TheFrugalWizard said:

Thanks :). I actually just stumbled upon some writing from years and years ago, when I was like 6. Please don't judge or take offense, I'm copying word for word from my old notebook. The title is "Two Friends Depart." It's a tradgedy.

  Hide contents

Two Friends Depart

TheFrugalWizard

One day there was a boy with a cat named tigger. And the boy's name was Fred. Fred and Tigger did everything together. They even went to the bathroom and ate meals together. One day Fred took Tigger to music class. It was a disaster. In piano, Tigger ripped out the keys. Tigger knew he would get in trouble so he ran away. Fred was so upset he cried for a week. His mom tried to comfort him but it did no good. After a week of Fred crying, Tigger came home and threw 225 snowballs at him in the summer. Fred was so happy he foorgot about the broken piano and hugger Tigger as hard as he could. And Tigger's eyes popped out, but that's okay, because they were attached by springs. Just like in Tigger everything is attached by springs (which is how he got to antarctica in just one week*). Fred was startled but as life went on it became usual. Fred's mother disciplined Tigger by slapping him on the bottom and it sprang off. Also Tigger's bottom slapped momma in the face. Fred's mom jumped out of the way and Tigger flew out the window and landed on a passing truck. And that was the last time enyone heard from Tigger again. Therefore Fred cried forevermore.

*My (not 6-year-old me) note: If I remember correctly, I believe that this is where Tigger got the 225 snowballs from.

Again - I copied this word for word (with some minor grammar changes - capital letters and such) from my old notebook. I hope you enjoy it!

hey its not that bad. my only complaint is the highlighted yellow part

[TheFrugalWizard he/him]

4 minutes ago, RoyalBeeMage said:

hey its not that bad. my only complaint is the highlighted yellow part

Oh yea that should say "hugged Tigger" that's a typo sry :).

7 hours ago, The Stormfather said:

Here's a prompt : A volcano that is ruled by a chicken.

Seems like it'll make a very profound, insightful story.

Here is my story. It's not long, but it's something.

Spoiler

Chuck the Chicken Summons the Wrath of the Universe

TheFrugalWizard

 

Halorim the blessed strode through the halls of the Black Keep, head bowed. This was a blessed day. But also a cursed one. 

Halorim Made it to the end of the hall, where large golden doors inlaid with diamonds stood like imposing statues. Beyond those doors was his king. He raised his hand, grabbing the heavy knocker. He knocked with it  thrice, as was the custom. The ritual reply came. 

“Enter, Halorim, first attendant to the King.”

Slowly, the massive doors opened outward and inside was the king and his servant, who had just replied to him. 

Halorim bowed his head to the foot of the throne. “O great king,” he said. “Today you have proclaimed that you will destroy all heretics. Which is everyone not in the Castle at this moment.”

“The great king responds. O ruler, what is your verdict?” silence for a moment. Then a confident squawk. “As the royal translator and servant of His Majesty Chuck the Twenty-Fourteenth, I proclaim that your king has spoken! This very day all—”

He was cut off as the king gave a cluck. 

“Your majesty?” The servant asked. Halorim was still bowing to the throne.

Another series of clucks came from the king, lasting several minutes this time.

“Ah, of course. His Majesty pronounces that this day, to show the heretic nation of the lands of the earth that Chuck is to be obeyed and worshiped. All those who refuse will be destroyed. You are dismissed.”

“As you wish, your excellency.”

Halorim didn’t think about his job. Except for today. Today, his strain was cracking. Today, after thirty years of servitude to his master Chuck, he questioned his loyalty. And how could he not? He’d just been ordered to blow up an entire planet by a chicken. A boiling chicken! Could he kill all of these people? 

Halorim suddenly felt ashamed. He had questioned Chuck? What was he, some boiling barbarian from the west? No, he was first attendant Halorim, high secretary of His Majesty! How could he do such a thing?

A few hours later, Halorim stood in front of a massive pool of lava. It didn’t feel hot in the least. He was, after all, a Hotioneer. The Hotioneers were an order of priests that dealt directly with Maurice, the volcano that was the home of the Black Keep. 

Halorim didn’t think about what he was going to do next. He couldn’t, lest it destroy him. He took a long black metal rod from his pocket and tossed it into the lake. 

“Hokio allamar iklikae marsugal!” He chanted. It was a long chant. After the several minutes it took to say, the lava began bubbling and boiling. Smiling, he stepped out over the lava. He fell and hit the surface as if it were solid. He stood in the middle and reached his hands to the sky. “Alloak roraim pingolan!” He screamed. Lightning flashed, and the lava began to rise supernaturally around him. He rose like some kind of god into the air, lava and electricity flashing around him. His eyes and skin had become a smoldering red color. He commanded the lava, forcing it to flow over the land. Power surged through him, empowering him to send forth the storm. 

He flew across the land like a deity of old, commanding the winds, rains and magma of destruction. Before the hour was out, the entire planet was a smoldering heap of ash. Exhausted, Halorim collapsed on his cot in the Black Keep. It wasn’t until the next morning that he realized he’d drawn the ire of The Primordials.

 

[TheRavenHasLanded he/him]

Have fun reading this, ive put things into my writing thread, but figured it might get more exposure here. 

Spoiler

1200 years aog (supposed to be ago but its funny so im keeping it) there was a small fishing town down inside the Valley. The people of the Valley were enormously strong, so much so that they could nearly throw mountains. They were called the Vallians. Among the great and powerful Vallians, there lived a human professor. He had spent the last 20 years among the Vallians, learning their culture and language. However, on this particular morning, the Vallians could not move. Frantic, the professor searches his book for their physiology, and the page was ripped out! Resigning himself to be the last man to see such great and powerful people, he walks into the Vallian Square. There stood three of the oldest Vallians, holding themselves up by holding onto the sturdy oaks nearby. The professor cried out, shocked. Then one of the Vallians spoke. “Fish for the Great Fish. It will be stronger than many a mountain, but you have persistence, and we believe you can wear it down, unlike countless others of our people.”
The professor kneeled before the Vallians. “This quest shall be done.” The old, but still strong Vallians smiled. “Go” and the man stood, tears to his eyes. He turns around, and begins his long journey.
It took him many months, traversing deserts that would have dried any normal man to the bone. But he pushed on. He swam through the great rivers, beating down the current as he swam, and sprinted through the rainforests, its greenery brushing his skin lightly, its poison working through him. He was bitten, blocked, and beaten, but he pushed on. Finally, after 3 years he reached the great ocean. On the shore, there was a large boat, one that could only carry a Vallian. Standing on the boat was a skeleton, who allowed him passage on. And so, the first trial had begun.
The skeleton lurched forwards, but collapses into small pieces. Horrified, the professor jumps forwards, beginning the painstaking process of putting the skeleton back together. With care belying his looks, he assembles each piece back in perfection. His memory served him well, as he remembered their bone structure exactly like he had recorded it on his missing page. The skeleton nodded its thanks, then with speed ran to the wheel and began to turn it. With a cacophony of creaks and wood protests, the boat leaves the dock.
    Now, of course, the man was mentally tired. But a challenge comes quickly, in the form of gloomy stormclouds on the horizon. Terrified, the professor held onto something and began the eternal wait from calm to storm.
    The first wave was a shock. It slammed into the boat with incredible force, and despite the boat being in horrid condition, it survived. Wave after wave shook the boat as the professor screamed in vain, spitting water from his mouth several times. Then, there was a final, enormous wave to go over. The professor stared up the monolith, knowing he would die. They flew up the wave, gravity seeming to shift from the bottom to the back, then through the top. He held on with massive strength as the boat stalled in the air, then fell. The professor was calm as he crashed into the ocean, water going up his nose and battered by the boat’s wreckage. He moved up, his head bursting forth out of the water to breathe in air. He had forgotten how nice it was to breathe it. At the very edges of his vision, he could see an island, quietly floating with gentle waves.
He stroked through the water, his arms burning with each stoke as he moved. The salt mixed with his wounds, stinging him as he moved. He swam for nearly an hour before getting to the small island. On it, there was a large wooden hut, and a willow-oak tree hybrid. The hut released a gust of cold air as it was opened, revealing a quaint little workshop, with fishline strings along with a dulled whittling knife and a large sturdy table with hundreds upon thousands of nicks, scrapes and gashes. In the corner, he found a whetstone in good condition that he could use. With a worksman’s precision, he sharpens the whittling knife just as the Vallians had taught, the edge soon becoming keen with sharp. Its former state lay on the whetstone. He explored further, looking for an axe to cut down the tree. He had no fishing rod, so he began to make his own, as was customary for those who had made it this far.
The monotonous sounds of an axe slamming into the trunk finally gave way into a loud thud as the behemoth tree fell. With careful precision, he cut away the outer bark, then begins the painstaking process of whittling the tree. Before he began, he glanced at the ground, noticing a single small seed. He re-planted the seed, then scraped away at the flexible wood, its strips curling up and around. He cut the tree several times, for future attempts at fishing, as he was practical enough to realize that this challenge could prove more difficult. A great eagle circled above, waiting for him to fail and take the dead body off the island for its young. The professor did not notice, and forged on.
Days later, he had a rod. He had sweat dripping down every inch of him. He attached a line to the rod, put some bait on, and began to fish. The rod broke as soon as the line hit the water, shattering in every grain of the wood. With a sigh, he retreated, beginning the process over again. 
    Two rods later, it didn’t shatter. With glee, he took a boat he found and went out, passing far into the distance, the only sounds being the swish of paddles through water. When he had gone far enough, he set out his rod, beginning the long wait for his catch. Several days passed, his mind spinning with grand returns, holding the fish above his head for all to see. The line dipped into the water and became taut. The boat lurched forward as the fish began to pull away, but the rod held. The professor frantically grabbed at it before it flew away. 
    His hands grasped the rod just as it unhooked. Immediately, he went under the waves. The cold shocked him, but he held onto his rod. The fish swam at breakneck speeds. He continued to hold. The fish darted up, breaching the surface of the water, allowing the professor a brief moment of air, then slammed back into the water. The fish swam deeper. His ears began to pop. Still, he held. Soon, he began to lose his air as it was used up. He slipped in and out of consciousness, holding on by sheer force of will. Knowing that his life hangs in the balance, he thought back to his time with the Vallians, desperate to find something, anything, that would allow him to succeed and keep his life.
 

 

[SmilingPanda19 of the female/variety]

If anyone’s in need of some writing prompts I feel like I can flush out some right now.

[TheRavenHasLanded he/him]

7 minutes ago, SmilingPanda19 said:

If anyone’s in need of some writing prompts I feel like I can flush out some right now.

the pfp is cute! also, i kinda want a writing prompt, not necessarily because I'm gonna do it, but I wanna hear what your ideas are.

[TheFrugalWizard he/him]

1 hour ago, TheRavenHasLanded said:

Have fun reading this, ive put things into my writing thread, but figured it might get more exposure here. 

  Reveal hidden contents

1200 years aog (supposed to be ago but its funny so im keeping it) there was a small fishing town down inside the Valley. The people of the Valley were enormously strong, so much so that they could nearly throw mountains. They were called the Vallians. Among the great and powerful Vallians, there lived a human professor. He had spent the last 20 years among the Vallians, learning their culture and language. However, on this particular morning, the Vallians could not move. Frantic, the professor searches his book for their physiology, and the page was ripped out! Resigning himself to be the last man to see such great and powerful people, he walks into the Vallian Square. There stood three of the oldest Vallians, holding themselves up by holding onto the sturdy oaks nearby. The professor cried out, shocked. Then one of the Vallians spoke. “Fish for the Great Fish. It will be stronger than many a mountain, but you have persistence, and we believe you can wear it down, unlike countless others of our people.”
The professor kneeled before the Vallians. “This quest shall be done.” The old, but still strong Vallians smiled. “Go” and the man stood, tears to his eyes. He turns around, and begins his long journey.
It took him many months, traversing deserts that would have dried any normal man to the bone. But he pushed on. He swam through the great rivers, beating down the current as he swam, and sprinted through the rainforests, its greenery brushing his skin lightly, its poison working through him. He was bitten, blocked, and beaten, but he pushed on. Finally, after 3 years he reached the great ocean. On the shore, there was a large boat, one that could only carry a Vallian. Standing on the boat was a skeleton, who allowed him passage on. And so, the first trial had begun.
The skeleton lurched forwards, but collapses into small pieces. Horrified, the professor jumps forwards, beginning the painstaking process of putting the skeleton back together. With care belying his looks, he assembles each piece back in perfection. His memory served him well, as he remembered their bone structure exactly like he had recorded it on his missing page. The skeleton nodded its thanks, then with speed ran to the wheel and began to turn it. With a cacophony of creaks and wood protests, the boat leaves the dock.
    Now, of course, the man was mentally tired. But a challenge comes quickly, in the form of gloomy stormclouds on the horizon. Terrified, the professor held onto something and began the eternal wait from calm to storm.
    The first wave was a shock. It slammed into the boat with incredible force, and despite the boat being in horrid condition, it survived. Wave after wave shook the boat as the professor screamed in vain, spitting water from his mouth several times. Then, there was a final, enormous wave to go over. The professor stared up the monolith, knowing he would die. They flew up the wave, gravity seeming to shift from the bottom to the back, then through the top. He held on with massive strength as the boat stalled in the air, then fell. The professor was calm as he crashed into the ocean, water going up his nose and battered by the boat’s wreckage. He moved up, his head bursting forth out of the water to breathe in air. He had forgotten how nice it was to breathe it. At the very edges of his vision, he could see an island, quietly floating with gentle waves.
He stroked through the water, his arms burning with each stoke as he moved. The salt mixed with his wounds, stinging him as he moved. He swam for nearly an hour before getting to the small island. On it, there was a large wooden hut, and a willow-oak tree hybrid. The hut released a gust of cold air as it was opened, revealing a quaint little workshop, with fishline strings along with a dulled whittling knife and a large sturdy table with hundreds upon thousands of nicks, scrapes and gashes. In the corner, he found a whetstone in good condition that he could use. With a worksman’s precision, he sharpens the whittling knife just as the Vallians had taught, the edge soon becoming keen with sharp. Its former state lay on the whetstone. He explored further, looking for an axe to cut down the tree. He had no fishing rod, so he began to make his own, as was customary for those who had made it this far.
The monotonous sounds of an axe slamming into the trunk finally gave way into a loud thud as the behemoth tree fell. With careful precision, he cut away the outer bark, then begins the painstaking process of whittling the tree. Before he began, he glanced at the ground, noticing a single small seed. He re-planted the seed, then scraped away at the flexible wood, its strips curling up and around. He cut the tree several times, for future attempts at fishing, as he was practical enough to realize that this challenge could prove more difficult. A great eagle circled above, waiting for him to fail and take the dead body off the island for its young. The professor did not notice, and forged on.
Days later, he had a rod. He had sweat dripping down every inch of him. He attached a line to the rod, put some bait on, and began to fish. The rod broke as soon as the line hit the water, shattering in every grain of the wood. With a sigh, he retreated, beginning the process over again. 
    Two rods later, it didn’t shatter. With glee, he took a boat he found and went out, passing far into the distance, the only sounds being the swish of paddles through water. When he had gone far enough, he set out his rod, beginning the long wait for his catch. Several days passed, his mind spinning with grand returns, holding the fish above his head for all to see. The line dipped into the water and became taut. The boat lurched forward as the fish began to pull away, but the rod held. The professor frantically grabbed at it before it flew away. 
    His hands grasped the rod just as it unhooked. Immediately, he went under the waves. The cold shocked him, but he held onto his rod. The fish swam at breakneck speeds. He continued to hold. The fish darted up, breaching the surface of the water, allowing the professor a brief moment of air, then slammed back into the water. The fish swam deeper. His ears began to pop. Still, he held. Soon, he began to lose his air as it was used up. He slipped in and out of consciousness, holding on by sheer force of will. Knowing that his life hangs in the balance, he thought back to his time with the Vallians, desperate to find something, anything, that would allow him to succeed and keep his life.
 

 

It looks good! I really enjoyed it. Two things though: It needs some serious editing, and... it seems to end abruptly? Is there more, or am I missing something?

[TheRavenHasLanded he/him]

1 minute ago, TheFrugalWizard said:

It looks good! I really enjoyed it. Two things though: It needs some serious editing, and... it seems to end abruptly? Is there more, or am I missing something?

yes, aware, and yes, theres more.

[RoyalBeeMage he/him]

13 hours ago, SmilingPanda19 said:

If anyone’s in need of some writing prompts I feel like I can flush out some right now.

could i have some prompts. i didn't want to do the chicken one because someone else got to it first and i couldn't work out how to get the one about not using the to say that the word the was illegal.

[TheFrugalWizard he/him]

On 3/20/2024 at 4:18 AM, RoyalBeeMage said:

could i have some prompts. i didn't want to do the chicken one because someone else got to it first and i couldn't work out how to get the one about not using the to say that the word the was illegal.

That's the thing! You have to make some way of telling your readers without them knowing, perhaps by having a character use some very strange word acrobatics to get around not saying the. Or if you can't figure it out, have one of the characters accidentally say it in private and the other one points it out.

[RoyalBeeMage he/him]

1 hour ago, TheFrugalWizard said:

That's the thing! You have to make some way of telling your readers without them knowing, perhaps by having a character use some very strange word acrobatics to get around not saying the. Or if you can't figure it out, have one of the characters accidentally say it in private and the other one points it out.

ooh that is a good idea. i might try that out tomorrow

[Edema Rue she/her]

I got the prompt today to write a poem from the perspective of someone who’s daydreaming during an exam…I’d love to see what anyone else comes up with!

(Mine is going in my thread just because I like to keep my writing in the same place or I’ll go insane, but I swear I’m not elitist or anything I think this thread is awesome)

[Wierdo he/him]

5 hours ago, Edema Rue said:

I got the prompt today to write a poem from the perspective of someone who’s daydreaming during an exam…I’d love to see what anyone else comes up with!

(Mine is going in my thread just because I like to keep my writing in the same place or I’ll go insane, but I swear I’m not elitist or anything I think this thread is awesome)

A test for a class?
i'd rather look outside,
so what if I pass?  

oh look that's a hat,
Sitting calm on that boy's head,
not seeing teacher

The teacher swooped in,
Snatching the hat with a grin,
as she left quickly.


Ah, the beauty of teachers hating hats

why did i feel sooo compelled to write that? I usually hate writing poems- oh. i know why, because school forces it!

Edited March 22 by Wierdo

[TheFrugalWizard he/him]

@Wierdo

Nice poem! I liked the rhyming.

@Edema Rue

We'd still like to have your writing on here. Just because it's there doesn't mean it can't be here!

Okay so I just had this really cool idea for a writing prompt but I also kind of want to write something for it. In a future world, nearly the entire young generation is lazy and doesn't care about learning anything. To remedy this, the older generation makes machines that do all of the work (like assembling computers and programming and stuff) and the young generation only has to maintain and start/stop the machines. 

I don't really have a plot in mind, it could go the route of exploring the possibilities of the new ideas (all the machines break or stop working) or this could be a background setting type-thing (and the laziness of the population effects the storyline; a guy is too lazy to pick up someone for a date and never gets married).

Edited March 23 by TheFrugalWizard

[TheRavenHasLanded he/him]

Ok, i got a question: should i leave this as is or write his return?

Spoiler

1200 years aog (supposed to be ago but its funny so im keeping it) there was a small fishing town down inside the Valley. The people of the Valley were enormously strong, so much so that they could nearly throw mountains. They were called the Vallians. Among the great and powerful Vallians, there lived a human professor. He had spent the last 20 years among the Vallians, learning their culture and language. However, on this particular morning, the Vallians could not move. Frantic, the professor searches his book for their physiology, and the page was ripped out! Resigning himself to be the last man to see such great and powerful people, he walks into the Vallian Square. There stood three of the oldest Vallians, holding themselves up by holding onto the sturdy oaks nearby. The professor cried out, shocked. Then one of the Vallians spoke. “Fish for the Great Fish. It will be stronger than many a mountain, but you have persistence, and we believe you can wear it down, unlike countless others of our people.”
The professor kneeled before the Vallians. “This quest shall be done.” The old, but still strong Vallians smiled. “Go” and the man stood, tears to his eyes. He turns around, and begins his long journey.
It took him many months, traversing deserts that would have dried any normal man to the bone. But he pushed on. He swam through the great rivers, beating down the current as he swam, and sprinted through the rainforests, its greenery brushing his skin lightly, its poison working through him. He was bitten, blocked, and beaten, but he pushed on. Finally, after 3 years he reached the great ocean. On the shore, there was a large boat, one that could only carry a Vallian. Standing on the boat was a skeleton, who allowed him passage on. And so, the first trial had begun.
The skeleton lurched forwards, but collapses into small pieces. Horrified, the professor jumps forwards, beginning the painstaking process of putting the skeleton back together. With care belying his looks, he assembles each piece back in perfection. His memory served him well, as he remembered their bone structure exactly like he had recorded it on his missing page. The skeleton nodded its thanks, then with speed ran to the wheel and began to turn it. With a cacophony of creaks and wood protests, the boat leaves the dock.
    Now, of course, the man was mentally tired. But a challenge comes quickly, in the form of gloomy stormclouds on the horizon. Terrified, the professor held onto something and began the eternal wait from calm to storm.
    The first wave was a shock. It slammed into the boat with incredible force, and despite the boat being in horrid condition, it survived. Wave after wave shook the boat as the professor screamed in vain, spitting water from his mouth several times. Then, there was a final, enormous wave to go over. The professor stared up the monolith, knowing he would die. They flew up the wave, gravity seeming to shift from the bottom to the back, then through the top. He held on with massive strength as the boat stalled in the air, then fell. The professor was calm as he crashed into the ocean, water going up his nose and battered by the boat’s wreckage. He moved up, his head bursting forth out of the water to breathe in air. He had forgotten how nice it was to breathe it. At the very edges of his vision, he could see an island, quietly floating with gentle waves.
He stroked through the water, his arms burning with each stoke as he moved. The salt mixed with his wounds, stinging him as he moved. He swam for nearly an hour before getting to the small island. On it, there was a large wooden hut, and a willow-oak tree hybrid. The hut released a gust of cold air as it was opened, revealing a quaint little workshop, with fishline strings along with a dulled whittling knife and a large sturdy table with hundreds upon thousands of nicks, scrapes and gashes. In the corner, he found a whetstone in good condition that he could use. With a worksman’s precision, he sharpens the whittling knife just as the Vallians had taught, the edge soon becoming keen with sharp. Its former state lay on the whetstone. He explored further, looking for an axe to cut down the tree. He had no fishing rod, so he began to make his own, as was customary for those who had made it this far.
The monotonous sounds of an axe slamming into the trunk finally gave way into a loud thud as the behemoth tree fell. With careful precision, he cut away the outer bark, then begins the painstaking process of whittling the tree. Before he began, he glanced at the ground, noticing a single small seed. He re-planted the seed, then scraped away at the flexible wood, its strips curling up and around. He cut the tree several times, for future attempts at fishing, as he was practical enough to realize that this challenge could prove more difficult. A great eagle circled above, waiting for him to fail and take the dead body off the island for its young. The professor did not notice, and forged on.
Days later, he had a rod. He had sweat dripping down every inch of him. He attached a line to the rod, put some bait on, and began to fish. The rod broke as soon as the line hit the water, shattering in every grain of the wood. With a sigh, he retreated, beginning the process over again. 
    Two rods later, it didn’t shatter. With glee, he took a boat he found and went out, passing far into the distance, the only sounds being the swish of paddles through water. When he had gone far enough, he set out his rod, beginning the long wait for his catch. Several days passed, his mind spinning with grand returns, holding the fish above his head for all to see. The line dipped into the water and became taut. The boat lurched forward as the fish began to pull away, but the rod held. The professor frantically grabbed at it before it flew away. 
    His hands grasped the rod just as it unhooked. Immediately, he went under the waves. The cold shocked him, but he held onto his rod. The fish swam at breakneck speeds. He continued to hold. The fish darted up, breaching the surface of the water, allowing the professor a brief moment of air, then slammed back into the water. The fish swam deeper. His ears began to pop. Still, he held. Soon, he began to lose his air as it was used up. He slipped in and out of consciousness, holding on by sheer force of will. Knowing that his life hangs in the balance, he thought back to his time with the Vallians, desperate to find something, anything, that would allow him to succeed and keep his life.
    In the deep recesses of his mind, he remembered a story he heard from one of the elder Vallians, whom was a great warrior before his retirement. The story was a simple one, about fish. He grasped at it, frantic for its information. The one tidbit he pulled away, he knew, would save him. The elder had said, “In order to win, you must do at least one of these things: Outlast, outsmart, or outmaneuver. Only then can you win a battle crucial to the war.” With greatened resolve, he let the breath that he so fiercely held go. The bubbles drifted up. So did the Fish. They floated up, his ears popping and his lungs burning. The Fish struggled mightily, but he had been outlasted and outsmarted. The Fish accepted his fate, rising to the top of the water, as the professor let his grip slacken on the rod, and just as he reached the surface, he breathed in and finally submitted to the darkness threatening to overcome him. 
    He woke with a start, the Fish floating along with him. The fish had attached itself to a boat and took him to the dock where he had once started. The fish waited patiently, waiting to die. The professor took pity and took a scale. He asked the Fish, “I need to heal the Vallians of a strange affliction. I was told to hunt you, but I respect your strength and power, so I will not. Can you help me?” With that, the Fish looked up and spoke with a powerful baritone voice. “Take my scales, numbering them to 40, and bring the scales back to the Vallians. There they shall heal, and your burden will be lightened small one,” and the Fish waited while the professor took off the scales with reverence. After taking the 40 scales, he stood back and let the Fish flee, to live another day.