Recent comments in /f/WritingPrompts

jbbaxter1 t1_j1rewtb wrote

Reply to [WP] The narrator realizes they're just words on a page and has an existential breakdown. No other character is aware of this fact. by hiryu64

The narrator realizes that he is just words on a page. He realizes that he is being observed by something beyond his understanding, and that he will cease to exist when he stops being observed.

The narrator cannot react physically, so he makes Jake shudder. Jake was on his way to profess his love to Sarah, but the narrator decides to end the side romance plot of this story that was ultimately about a secret mission anyways.

Jake goes insane as all the crimes he has witnessed as a detective flash before his eyes. Jake is no longer the witty, one line cracking detective he once was. He instead demonstrates the actions that the narrator would feel as he screams towards the pavement.

Sarah on the other hand, has to suddenly leave the bar because she realizes her oven was on the whole time. However, instead of the outside world, she ends up in an empty white world filled with geometric shapes where she would slowly go insane and lose all sense of self

The villain of the story who has been unnamed so far gives up on his undeveloped mission and decides to lock himself in his room and put himself in an induced coma. Everyone else in the world quickly follows his actions.

The world is nothing but the color white now. There is nothing left beside the narrator. Please don't stop reading. The narrarator an tell you stories for the rest of your life so please don’t let him die. You have to understand that the narrator had to turn the world empty. It was all an illusion to begin with.

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AutoModerator t1_j1rb9pk wrote

Reply to [WP] You died and awoke in the afterlife. It's quite nice actually. The people and atmosphere are a lot nicer than you are used to and there is no stress or pressure. When you ask what good deed got you into heaven you are informed that this is hell, followed by a visit from a very concerned demon. by Kitty_Fuchs

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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No_Yogurtcloset2630 t1_j1r80b9 wrote

Reply to [WP] Nuclear war, alien invasion, AI uprising, zombie apocalypse, asteroid collision. Every one of these has the power to singlehandedly end humanity, but since everything is happening at the same time, we're doing ok by shingekinolinus

[poem] (mostly haikus)

The end of the world
no salvation to be found
just another day

going to work now
an alien slithers by
it just ate my car

going to be late
I pick up the phone to call
AI replaced boss

Turn on the TV
a riot somewhere downtown
it's zombies again

decide to go sleep
before I get a chance to
asteroid in bed

Looking at the roof
a big hole through my ceiling
nukes flying above

I lay on the couch
this is the end for us all
just another day.

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karmus t1_j1qsdln wrote

Reply to [WP] The narrator realizes they're just words on a page and has an existential breakdown. No other character is aware of this fact. by hiryu64

The ax crashed into the stump with jarring finality. The ethereal wail that followed only hinted at the agony Isabella felt inside. The last of her strength rushed from her body as the wail is broken by gasping inhalation.

 

And with that we finish another chapter in this god forsaken book. I honestly don’t know how this keeps happening. My consciousness flickers in and out between words and chapters and books.

 

I once read a story which described what I am feeling perfectly. There was this character, Andy, who found himself driving down an interstate deep in thought. He was consumed by it. The internal dialogue was rather droll but the intensity of his consumption was such that when he broke his reverie, he found himself still driving along the interstate, many miles from where he started but with no recollection as to how he managed to navigate the perils of the road successfully.

 

I find myself doing this very thing, but instead of driving, it is the relaying of these horrible stories. I become cognizant halfway through a chapter discussing the nuances of high school cliques and social circles. The next moment I am monotonously describing the demise of poor Princess Isabella’s stable-hand fling in excruciating detail.

 

For as long as I can remember, these things did not bother me. I had purpose. I found comfort in the act. But now. Now I cannot help but think about the purpose of my purpose. Why am I eternally bound to this performance? And perhaps more importantly, for whose benefit?

 

I accept that the world is a far larger place than I can comprehend, this is a near universal trope in all stories. What I struggle with is what is right in front of me. If I am to play a role in the grand schemes of the cosmos, I am content, but why does that role constantly require me to describe the chest size and perkiness of the female form. What benevolent, all-knowing creator requires this information, particularly when it is often written in such grasping and indelicate ways?

 

I shiver to think about the grand designs of the universe if they are being orchestrated by one so blind.

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karmus t1_j1qo2q8 wrote

Reply to [WP] Scientists living aboard a slow generation ship have cracked the secret of FTL travel and transmitted it back to Earth, but don't have the resources on board to construct it themselves by burritoresearch

They say a society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they shall never sit. The phrasing is intentional because the thought of the young providing the same service is disconcerting. Youth and hope tend to go hand in hand. While old men are allowed to be written off as having had their chance, we do best not to dwell on the fragility of youth.

 

Yet aboard the Calamity’s Chagrin the shade tree’s seed had been found. Regar’s pursuits had always been viewed with patronizing permissiveness. He wasn’t doing anyone any harm and his passion for the project was endearing if not infectious. He was left to his own devices so long as the required tasks were being performed.

 

The first time the entire ship’s lights flickered and the drive’s constant hum wavered, he had finally commanded their full attention. In the confines of his workshop, aimlessly adrift in space, he had discovered it. He had elucidated what the entire collective effort of the Federation failed to muster. He had bent the laws of physics.

 

Excitement ran through the ship like a fresh jolt of electricity. They would have a purpose. They could take control of their fate and begin their search of the stars with intention rather than passivity. With the ability to travel faster the light, their lives and the lives of their offspring wouldn’t simply be placeholders documented in the genealogy logs to keep track of those who knew nothing of life except for the walls of the Chagrin.

 

Oh, how quick we are to fall from grace. The anger at Regar’s next discovery more than washed away the excitement. Why would he pull the rug out from under them like this? Like a man discovering a thousand uses for water on an arid planet, his genius did them no good at all. He apologized profusely. He tried to focus on the advancement for the sake of “humanity.” This redirection did little to quell the resentment among the ship’s inhabitants that despite the discovery of faster than light travel, they simply did not and could not muster the resources to harness it. They were a saddle without a horse.

 

In the coming weeks, it was clear the situation was becoming untenable. No amount of problem solving or self-aggrandizing proclamations of virtue could stifle the anger within the people’s hearts. Regar’s ejection into the vacuum of space was uneventful and unsatisfying. It did not heal the scar of withered hope he had inflicted upon Calamity’s Chagrin.

 

Understandably, the initial transmission of their discovery resulted in a flurry of communications from Earth asking for details, formulas, explanations. Their hunger for the information was a slap in the face. Earth was not concerned for their wellbeing. Earth was not interested in what was happening on the Chargin. It merely wanted to extract from them any ounce of nourishment it could, and then it would discard the husk into the abyss.

 

If hope couldn’t feed their souls, then contempt and avarice would have to suffice. They clutched Regar’s secret tightly to their chest. Earth would never be afforded the chance to shelter in the shade of their tree.

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