Holy shit dude this feels like it is but a piece of chapter one of book one out of at least three or four maybe more

The first thing you picked up on was the voice. Partly because you had absolutely no clue it was watching till it spoke, but mostly because of how it sounded. It was like the voices of many, layered and slightly out of sync, brought together to speak for this one thing.

You’re second point of interest was the feet. They quickly came into view as you turned your head, hard and cloven, like a goat. If you listened close you could hear a faint clip-clopping as it slowly paced towards you.

And then, there was the rest of it. It was like no beast you’ve seen before. It had a giant toothy maw twisted into a needle toothed grin. The god, demon, or whatever the hell it was, was covered in a thousand tiny eyes, all blinking, all starring, all seeing. The very sight made your skin crawl.

It stepped closer, with what it probably thought was a friendly look on its face, and held out its hands. They were the only human thing about it, despite the long claws attached at the end. You slowly, carefully place the offering into its hands.

I thought we agree to make it less well done already.

Brought a tear to my eye. Bravo.

A hitman who must get their kill is preparing to assassinate a business leader in their Seattle penthouse who got intel that someone was going to threaten their life.

What neither of them counted on was a magnitude 8 earthquake during the hunt.

[removed]

Thank you, I am very surprised.

Answers: My favourite genre to write is probably Sci-Fi, due to the sheer flexibility and how many different forms this genre can emerge as. I can write a journey to the uttermost end of reality, a tale of cybernetic wonders, a mythos of robotic lifeforms, or a story of human and alien friendship, and they'll all be a joy for my mind to create. From Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, to William Gibson's Neuromancer, they are all good. I have written quite a number of these, and despite the ludicrous snobs who dislike it, I will not stop writing them. To read, well, that's a bit different. Fantasy. Dresden Files, LOTR, The Chronicles of Prydain, Earthsea Cycle, so many others. The fantastic tales of otherworlds, full of might and magic. To read those, are indeed very relaxing, very pleasing to me. I have to give an honourable shout-out to the genre of Bildungsroman, because I've always enjoyed those as well.

I find the time and motivation through discipline. If I truly want to write, then I will make the time; and because I must write, I will write the stories, no matter the time to spare. Both those you see here and those that are elsewhere. It's about setting yourself into a properly disciplined cycle, that there are days when you must write. You force yourself to open the dam in the mind and let the words flow like a tidal wave unto the page in front of you. Even if it isn't comfortable. Because if you break the discipline, then you break the cycle, then you stop writing, and frankly it takes forever to get going again if you stop. (In my experience, I have to spend some time working myself into the ol' gears again before I get up to an acceptable standard again, if I've stopped for a while.) It helps that my job is pretty good with the whole ''once you're off the site, you're not working'' sort of deal. If I'm not in the lab, I'm not working. That gives me some time to write, though not as much as I would like. (Those who remember that time I answered +80 prompts during the Covid quarentine period in a month knows what I am talking about. I really want to write mooooooore.)

I guess my favourite TV-show is Columbo? It's a very good show, with an excellent premise. Great main character, powerful story-telling. Old though. But not all old things are bad. Forgive me, this isn't a question I can say much about; I just don't watch a lot of TV, due to not owning a TV, and I refuse to get any streaming site subscriptions for secret reasons.

Hm... Anime. Hard question. For sheer bloody action, I'd say Hellsing Ultimate. Vampires vs nazis vs crusaders, lots of cool action scenes, there is a werewolf, a guy turns into a monstrous thorn-bush; what's not to like? In terms of comedy, I'd say Space Dandy(he's a dandy guy, in space), which consistently makes me laugh quite uproariously. Good, self contained, stories. Very versatile characters, with a lot of options for fun, but also philosophy(never expect to have to ask myself about the concept of ''self'' as much as I did, from a comedy). Drama, maybe Beastars? Bit odd, but I like that it takes the premise (carnivores, herbivores living together) and delves into the ramifications of that without pulling stops. Maybe it also refers back to what I answered to another question here, Xenofiction, at least somewhat, and I am fond of that concept.

But overall, I'd have to say Naoki Urasawa's Monster. Politics in post-cold war Europe, a horrifying look into the psyche, relatable medical setting, a constant wrestle with Nietzsche's ''Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster'' concept, and how to handle the experience of being all alone in the world. All of it speaks to me, and I find myself hooked. If I start to read it, as a manga, I find it nearly impossible to stop. If I start to watch the anime, I'll suddenly realize that it's 03:00 on the digital clock and I'm going to work in five hours.

I hope this was sufficient in so far as answers go.

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Thank damn god that my only (and current w.i.p) story's protagonist is a pacifist who at most locks the antagonists away somewhere with good conditions and entertainment, and will only hurt you if it's necessary to disarm you. Well, there is one "but", and if it came into play I would be completely fucked, but I won't talk about it because spoilers for something I might create and share someday. But, yeah, if that spoilery thing won't come into play, we're chilling as I practice digital art to make that animation someday.

holy crap this was beautiful! I love how unique and how it doesnt just graze the hearts feelings but stabs right into them.

Thank you kindly(how did this happen though???), I shall answer forthwith.

1: Well, I have to say that I am quite fond of xenofiction, as in stories that have the unique perspective of a non-human POV. They are much harder to writer, and thus provide a far greater challenge(and possibility for improvement in terms of writing). In terms of reading such stories, I find that they are nearly universally interesting, though also harder to understand, in comparison to your average human POV story. There is just something inherently fascinating in seeing the world through the eyes of a robot, an animal, or an alien.

2: Hard to tell, there are a lot of good stories, from a lot of good writers on here. (I like Lady_Oh, but she doesn't post much anymore, sadly) My favourites, as in those I personally liked writing the most, are those like the Sunrise City where I can just go absolutely feral and write something nuts, but I am also quite fond of the more emotional stories; Like Risen Angel or a more recent one, about a sweet bioweapon. Gives me some delightful feelings.

3: Hard to say just how long I've been writing. Under the ''ApocalypseOwl'' name, I have written for about 8 or 9 years, but I've been active on various sites since I was quite young; I guess since about 2004 or 2005, that was when I started. It was naturally not great, and like many people in our age, I got my start in fanfiction along with original writing. Good thing that the hard drive from back then has been completely destroyed. It definitely isn't up to mine or anyone's' standards.

I guess I just started because I felt like it? Due to a variety of complex reasons, I was a bit of a lonely kid who read a metric tonne of books. And I was constantly running out of books. I wanted to see if I could write some stories to increase the possible amount of fiction in my vicinity while I waited for books, and it turns out the answer was yes. Still, took a lot of training to get half-way decent. And I've still got some way to go.

Hope that answered your questions.

I've long forgotten how long ago the war happened. We thought we'd be wiped clean in nuclear fire. We definitely tried, I remember the radio talking about the impacts as they got the reports.

But I guess we came to our senses. Someone stopped pushing the button. I do remember the counts. Thirteen hit here in the States. Our neighbors to the north got half a dozen. They reported thirty across Russia. South America and Africa totalled up were twenty.

Then the new plague. Engineered, radioactive flu, didn't matter. I held my only child in my arms as she died, practically melting into a viscous black paste as the disease took her. I remember her mother slowly banging her head into the window as I cried.

The not so fortunate victims. We called them hollows. Sometimes the plague just ate away your insides and left a shambling husk wandering around. Mostly benign until they saw something alive.

We fled the cities. I keep saying we, like I don't remember their names. Maybe I don't want to. We were a team of analysts and communication specialists meant to keep the country running as Armageddon happened.

We failed, no one could have kept things from falling apart, but we tried.

Out in the wilds, after I buried my family, I saw the first shrine. A collection of sentimental knick knacks in a fountain, "He was here" scrawled across the concrete in what I hoped was red paint.

I found a radio that worked, and found a station. Emergency Broadcast didn't take long to fail, anything commercial had fallen off even faster. But on the shortwave, there was someone, something broadcasting; "Drive West, friends, He was here, He was there, and He waits for you in paradise."

It was something. I needed it to keep from going crazy. I don't even know what His name actually is. Some of the makeshift shrines made Him out as a man in a pullover hoodie, sometimes a robe, sometimes just a t-shirt and jeans with a pulled down ball cap over His eyes.

They never showed His face, and I never met anyone else in my travel. Just me and the radio, discovering more and more intricate depictions of Him.

I'm not much a man of faith, but I found hope in that thread of a constant while the world was dying around me. "Drive West, friends, He was here, He was there, He waits for you in paradise."

Walk during the day, find something to eat, sleep through the night, rinse and repeat.

I'd developed a bit of a ritual before sleeping. I'd cook what I found, and I'd toss a bit in the flames. "For those that were here," and the fire would crackle, "for those that are there," the fire danced, "and for Him," the fire would jump and celebrate.

The United States isn't, wasn't, a narrow country. I'd found a compass to help me keep straight, and always walked west. I did so, I've done so, for years.

I'm not sure if I'm in Hell, or things are just different now, but the broadcast never stops, and the only people I've ever met are corpses.

"Drive West, friends, He was here, He was there, He waits for you in paradise."

"For those that were here, for those that are there, and for Him."

"I hope you don't mind, but I'd rather not have to eat another burnt meal." A voice low and gravelly from the darkness outside the light.

I jump away from the fire, terror in my heart. "Who's there?"

"Just a man wandering around what has been, like yourself."

I realize the tone isn't malicious, and the terror abates. At least a small amount. I thought I was alone.

"You're not, friend," he says as he comes into the light, sitting cross legged before the fire. He's wearing a tattered denim jacket and a cowboy hat pulled down to hide his face.

I try to stutter out a response, and he waves a hand up. "I can't hear all your thoughts, but I heard that one. You're not alone out here, just a bit lost."

"How have I spent so long trying to get West, and I still have never seen the mountains?"

"Your heart is full of pain, and guilt. The world took your family, it's not your fault."

Tears well up in my eyes, "how do you know about "

Another raised hand, and that grandfather like tone, "I've been there, I'm here, and I'm waiting for you. You just have to forgive yourself."

I couldn't see for the tears clouding my vision, but somewhere in the flood of grief, the stranger had left. I'd have doubted he even existed, save for the coat pin where he'd sat. Just gotta survive today was written in black on a simple white square of ceramic.

Sleep wasn't easy, but when I awoke, I saw mountain tops on the horizon.

I'm sorry Anna, Candace, I couldn't save you. Mark, Wendy, Terrance, I hope you found peace.

I gotta survive today, he's been here, he's been there, he's waiting for me in paradise.

I'm no writing expert, but I'm not sure we need any more submissions. This takes the cake! Well done.

I looked across the forge, staring at the Adventurer as she walked towards the town's blacksmith, or as I knew him, Father.

The Adventurer didn't look like anything too special, twin daggers adorned her sheaths attached to luminous golden armour. One of her daggers, a deep ebony black in contrast to the steel one, shone with an ethereal blue glow, and I could see the Rune inscription on the hilt.

Maybe she was more powerful than I thought. I briefly wondered what she was discussing with my Father, the conversation too long to be a simple bartering exchange.

My musings were broken by the roar, like a booming crack of thunder, as the Dragon neared the village. Its scales, red like the blood of its victims, reflected the sunlight as it flew closer and closer.

I gripped the weapon I was working on, a simple iron sword, tight enough that my knuckles turned white and my nails marked my flesh.

And yet, I was the only one.

The Adventurer and my Father were still in conversation. The village guards patrolled the path. The fisherman continued to fish in blatant ignorance of the danger.

I hurried to the Adventurer and my Father. My Father spoke to the Adventurer as I came closer. "Thank you for recovering my Grandfather's Armour. It has been -"

"Sorry to interrupt," I lied, "but a Dragon approaches and we must ready for battle."

The Adventurer gave me a look of confused surprise at my words.

My Father took the opposite approach. His words halted as he glanced at me before he returned his attention to the Adventurer. "Thank you for recovering my Grandfather's Armour, he repeated. "It has -"

"Father!" I shouted, the Dragon circling the village overhead. "The Dragon is here! We must fight or die."

He looked at me again, with no understanding in his eyes. "Thank you for recovering my Gra-"

The Adventurer gave a loud sigh. "Getting bored of this dialogue now," she complained. She scaled the side of my Father's home and leapt as the Dragon approached. Her Runed Dagger swiped through the air at the beasts throat, killing it instantly as the blade met flesh. She calmly stared at the body before nodding contently and returning to my Father.

He looked at her, disregarding the Dragon corpse near his forge. "Thank you for recovering my Grandfather's Armour. It has been been in my family for generations. However I fear my adventuring days are gone. You may keep the armour. Now, I must return to my work." He walked to his forge and began heating the metal within.

I looked at my Father in disbelief. He was ignorant, ignoring the Adventurer skill and the Dragon. The Adventurer stood before me. "You," she stated. "Who are you?" I opened my mouth to respond, but she spoke again. Actually, better question. What are you? Because you're definitely not a normal NPC."

Love it

Thank you! I wanted the tone to be sad.

Higher on the street and I know it's my time to go.

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

Reminders:

>* 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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[removed]

I never expected heaven to look like this. I expected nothing, or maybe everything - but not this.

The office was hallways, meeting rooms, conference tables enclosed in glass walls, and cubicles as far as you could see. The workers were buzzing with tasks, documents, spreadsheets, and faxes like a swarm of jittery, methamphetamine-fuelled hornets. It was both chaos and order, efficiency and impotence, able and feeble. The scene was unpleasant to watch.

I stood frozen in place in the small breakroom kitchen, staring as God lit a cigarette in front of me, dusting the ashes off his tie. He stares at me as his eye twitches slightly.

"Yes, yeah. A beer sounds good right now." It feels like the words drool out of my mouth.

God smirks, nods, and reaches inside a microwave. At least it looks like a microwave - inside was stacks of beer.

He grips the lid with his thumb and forefinger, and lifts it up as if it had never been attached. He offers me the brown, unmarked bottle.

I squint, stare, blink twice, and take the beer.

"What the hell did you mean when you said the universe was doomed?"

God laughs a booming, hearty laugh.

"Well you see kid, kiddo, can I call you kiddo? You see kiddo, the universe runs on a matrix of neuroneuons that counterlace with the intrinsic matter-scale of the material plane."

I nod, wondering if I'm having a stroke.

"Right, okay. What does that mean then?"

God chuckles.

"Ah, new guy. I'm full of shit you know? I just tease. No science-y bullshit here. Straight up, it's just shutting down. No real reason right now, but I've got my best guys working on it."

I look out at the Kafkaesque office space around me.

"'New guy'? Do I work for you too?"

God flicks the ashes off his cigarette and with his free hand shoots me a finger gun.

"You betcha kiddo! Now listen, I know it's not a good day for you to be starting like this but you better believe you gotta whole lotta work ahead of you. You're going to go over to the Universe Existence department and hop on in there and uh... dig around in it, really get in it you know?"

I stare, he sighs, I reach my arm up to ask a question.

"Wait what is the-"

 

 

I'm in a cubicle with four other people, and three of them are turning papers upside down before shredding them.

"HI JERRY, I'M GEORGE, YOU KNOW WE NEED YOU TO REALLY START PULLING YOUR WEIGHT AROUND HERE, YOU'VE BEEN HERE EIGHT SECONDS AND HAVEN'T GOT INTO THE TEAM SPIRIT YET!"

George dumps a stack of papers in front of me, and as my vision goes dim and it feels like my brain atrophies, I start mindlessly flipping the papers.

The aliens are the Masters, they can't attack others just defend so they Made us "attack".

My favorite colour of the sky, you ask?

It's the same as the earth

looked upon from the very sky

you ask about.

Light blue, streaked with white.

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/u/ApocalypseOwl ayy congratulations dude! Questions: what's your favorite genre of fiction to read and write? How do you find the time and motivation to write while juggling life responsibilities like a job or school?

Favorite tv show? Favorite anime?