This is the nature —and beauty, in my opinion— of literature; everyone finds their own meaning in the words, whether the author intended them to have a meaning or not. I disagree with the phrase "reading too deeply", because there's no depth of meaning that is "too far" so long as it rings true in some aspect of reality.

Sometimes, the author just means that a curtain is blue. But if someone interprets it as an obstacle to sunlight, a symbolism for sadness and hardship, then that's not "wrong"— It's just a symbolism the author didn't create intentionally.

Aha it's good, would be cool if this was in a university setting.

Damn 💀

I respectfully disagree and don’t think that’s the point of a sub about creative writing.

Edited to add: to be clear also I didn’t substitute stuff. In my mind while writing the story, the teacher alerted the authorities who arrested the author and were then questioning him. I get that that may be a small leap but it’s a really simple logical leap given the prompt and what would logically happen if he was actually genuinely suspicious.

The point is to write within the confines of the prompt, not substitute parts of it.

The point was, what would an author do if they're stuck reading their own book in a class, with the teacher reading way too much into it?

Obligitory writing on phone and have fat fingers, I will be trying to remove typos but I make no promises as to getting all of them. Also this is the first prompt I am actually writing for, might suck.

Three Lights Festival, my latest novel, being handed out as material for our latest reading assignment. This wouldn't be so bad if not for two simple facts. Firstly, Mr. Harris has a slight tendancy to read too deep into anything written in a novel, and secondly, he doesn't know I wrote it.

The world renowned author Definite Human, no one knows their real identity, not even his publishers or editors. That's me, a junior in high school, reading my own novel for english class. I thought there was no god, let alone one with a sense of humor as strange as this.

"We will be reading this novel in class over the next few weeks," Mr. Harris stated with a grin on his face "I have never peronsally read it but some other teachers in the english department said it would be a good book for this class." of course he hadn't read it, that always helps with his the over-analization of these books. "For today, however, we will look into the author," and of course we will, researching myself, sounds like so much fun "your homework today will be to fill in this sheet, once you get it you can consider class dismissed".

He bagan to hand out a sheet of paper with a series of questions about the author, better known as myself, including "what genre of novel does Definite Human prefer writing?", fantasy of course, and "what does this signify about the author?". The expected answer is likely to be that I want to escape reality, don't feel like I fit in, et cetera. The real answer is that I don't know, it's just on of those things, a musician couldn't tell you why they picked a certain instrument, I couldn't tell you why I like fantasy, or why I don't tell anyone that I write, or even why I am making this diary, now of all times. It just feels, right, you know?

After that question sheet it was mostly short answer questions leading up to an essay at the end. The questions were never really that unexpected, always something I had intended to write, almost like he knew I inteded it. The real problem was during our class discussions of each chapter after we read it. Mr. Harris would butt in with things like, "what do you all think this line foreshadows", while pointing out a line that never once was meant as foreshadowing, "why did the author choose to describe the lights as 'heavenly columns'", the answer that I couldn't say, of course, is that there isn't a reason.

It wasn't until we reached the final chapter, "Of Whispers and Embers" that a broke. When Mr. Harris placed the comment "why do you think Definite Human chose to redeem the antagonist, and allow them to live in the end, was it because he had a similar struggle, seen as the villain of his story, no one listening to his side" he said in a more serious tone.

"Mr. Harris," I started, finally allowing myself to speak up "don't you think you are reading a bit too far into everything, just because it is written doesn't mean the author meant for it to meam something," I continued, "sure for this there may be a theme, but not everything ia written just because it has a connection to his life"

"How can we know it doesn't have a connection," he started, "the author has hidden his identity from everyone, the only way to find more out about them is to analyze their books".

"That doesn't mean you should overanalyze it." I retorted, "for all we know they may be writing just because they can, not to vent frustration with the world or try to prove a point".

"That is a very good thought, though it goes both ways".

"I doubt that", I responded.

"Sounds to me like you know something we don't," Mr. Harris stated, "just like your short response answers do," anxiety began to rise about whether he knew I was Definite Human, "why don't you tell us what that is".

Now in panic, I resond "I am a writer in my spare time, and I just understand that about 90% of the time, these things you claim to mean one thing, or say are intentional, really aren't.", with a silent sight of relief as I belive I have won.

"If you write, do you have any published books or other works?" Retorted Mr. Harris

Panic now returning I blurt out a respons, quite possibly the worst one I could have, "yes."

"Oh so you do," that sly smirk showing how Mr. Harris thinks he has won, he has, "what is it called?"

Panic increasing, I once again respond, this time not the worst response, but certainly bad, the name of the book I just sent to my editor "Glorious Dreams".

"Funny, Definite Human just submitted the same book to my editing firm, the book I am personally editing, I should be the only one other than him who knows the name." at this point I knew, I lost "unless you're him" he says while placing his hands on my desk and staring into my panic ridden soul.

Literally happened irl so you know

The English teacher alerted authorities who arrested him and the story picks up there… feels like that’s a pretty easy leap to take if I’m being honest.

Surprised by the downvotes and I dislike the precedent set on this sub where if you don’t follow the exact prompt you’re just dismissed.

I basically just subbed the English teacher for the cop and yet somehow that’s entirely different from the prompt?

edit: ty for the “I mean it’s okay”. That totally didn’t feel slightly rude.

Not a renowned author, but I do write an AO3, and my English teacher actually reads my works and provides me feedback. And he does indeed read too deeply into it, taking out meaning from something I never meant to have a meaning at all.

The class was almost over, yet the tension in the room only seemed to intensify. As I packed my books away, I heard her voice behind me, as measured and crisp as a spring morning.

"I have a theory," she said, her dark eyes inquisitive. I stopped in my tracks, my heart racing. What had I said or done to conjure such intrigue? "What if you didn't just write stories," she continued, "but actually experienced all of the sorcery you write about?"

If she revealed her theory to anyone, I could kiss my literary career goodbye.

But no one was prepared for what came next. She leaned in closer, her voice soft yet determined. "What if you were actually a wizard?"

All these years of keeping this secret, only for my English teacher to expose it all in one breath. Was this really the end? Would she out me to the world? My fear was quickly replaced by anger as she spoke more calmly, almost reassuringly. "I am not here to tell your secrets, I am here to protect them. I have known you were a wizard all along. I can sense the power in your words."

A few hours later, I heard knocks on my door. When I opened it, I saw a group of people from the school, dressed in black and carrying torches. I was speechless, unable to comprehend why they were there. But then, my teacher emerged from their midst. She walked towards me and coldly stated what drove them here.

"I have revealed your secret to the other wizards in town. They have come to take you away and make sure you are never able to cast a spell again."

In the moment of shock and fear, the one thing I could think was: Why? But it didn't matter anymore. I was exposed, and my magic was gone.

I mean it’s okay, but it has almost nothing to do with the prompt other than involving an author? Maybe?

The English Professor spun a web so convincing the policemen couldn’t help but pull out their handcuffs.

“Book him boys” Captain Crestwood commanded, and Clyde was led with hands behind his back to the police station, where he was set up in a small interview room.

Clyde held his baseball cap between his knees, counting to five between each stage of breathing. Twinges of gray filled his periphery.

"As I've said, officer, the similarity between the novella and the real events is simple. The novella is based on the murder of Courtney and Wilson Danvers, dramatized from the publicized account. Frankly, it is astonishing that my recounting of it should feel so genuine that I should be called in for questioning. It's almost a compliment, really." A faint smile danced on Clyde's lips, and the officer grimaced.

Yet the policeman continued again, baring down hard as he must on any suspect. Picking apart every aspect of the story, every little bit and piece, every nook and cranny, every apple and every orange, with oddly specific and seemingly meaningless questions.

The old lout clearly believed Clyde, thus Clyde relaxed, and allowed himself to sink deeper into his chair, largely droning out the bleating police captain, who was continuing to scrutinize Clyde's books.

Clyde gave occasional curt utterances, having already made his said, leaving the old, stupid oaf to do his routine police work. After a time he closed his eyes, leaving the old brute to ask his routine questions, to speculate and speak sentences that end with an upward inflection as if they were a question, though no question was spoken.

Police Captain Ashton Crestwood closely monitored the snakelike individual before him, buying none of his casual charm. The copy of Clyde Donavan's most popular book, Morning to Dawn, autographed by Clyde in front of Officer Wood, lay in the trash bin, its personalized message unread.

Captain Crestwood inwardly laughed at Clyde's gusto, the childlike way he leaned back in the seat and lazily closed his eyes. He had already decided the man must be guilty, long before he had met him personally. The evidence was damning, frankly, yet even more important matters were taking precedence.

An easy and quick win was needed.

The town was just coming off the tail end of a vicious streak of robberies, a few of which unfortunately turned poorly, resulting in fatalities and injuries. The police were of no help.

In one instance, an officer responding to a robbery in a particularly nasty part of town shamed the two folks for being so stupid to respond to an inquiry to buy their phone over craigslist. The phone was stolen, and the cop took the opportunity to shame the buyer for their stupidity.

The man gave hard glances around the neighborhood, at the little boys and girls playing on the old playground, at the groups of children with no toys to play with yet the strongest sense of neighborhood bond.

"Do you see where you are?"

The kids didn't know how to respond, and one of them tried to think of the city's name. The cop interrupted.

"No, look around you. Look at this place, does this look like where you live?" The cop gave them a hard stare.

The two teenage kids, with their recently lost phones, took in the scene of the rundown, crappy apartments. One of them noticed a little black boy, maybe six years old, soaking in every word the big police officer said, his face screwed up in sadness.

So after many incidents much like that one, with as much usefulness to the community as that one, the good Police Captain Ashton Crestwood wanted an easy dub.

Thus, Clyde was slapped behind bars, pending further evidence, as his house was ripped bar by bar, shred by shred, while the cops sprinkle cocaine, limbs, blood, whatever evidence is required.

It was not long before Clyde saw that blessed chair, and then his lord. Chief Crestwood received a moderate bonus.

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

🆕 New Here? ✏ Writing Help? 📢 News 💬 Discord

I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.

Oooooo this was good!

Is he really a man? Or just an eyeball with legs?

Your autocorrect really doesn't like the word "enough".

The story of the first ever large scale conflict....3 tribes instead of 2

The soup punches through the atmosphere in 0.24 seconds. Air resistance is ignorable. Air currents aren’t going to do shit.

[removed]

People don't realize. When you make soup, everything goes in. There's no "extra tomatoes" or "leftover ham" or "excess of garlic," it's all just soup. It boils down, and in the end, nobody really cares if it's potato or rutabaga that make those squishy lumps.

The other heroes don't understand. There's a patience to soup. They want results now! They want to be in the news, given awards, get famous. It's not worth it though. They make fun of me, but I don't mind. I like my soup. It's an art.

I stared up at the sky. I couldn't see it yet, but I could feel it. It was a big meteor, so it took some thought, but that's just prep time. Every soup takes prep time. If it took no time at all, everyone would make soup. I concentrated... I could feel it, moving fast, careening towards this little blue marble, a one in a billion shot. It wasn't big enough to wipe out all life, of course. People would survive. Maybe not a lot of people, but people. The other heroes... Well. At least some of them tried. Ultimate Mask died trying, which is a lot more than most of them managed. No imagination... Most of them left, or hid in the other side of the planet.

I began making my soup. Boiling it down, melting the fat and breaking bonds. It wasn't fast work. Increase the temperature... Transmute the base properties of nickel and adjust the bonds on all that carbon. Boil off the extra liquid. I pulled in some atmosphere as the newscasters started making their overly-calm end-of-the-world claims, just for flavor. And then I held out my bowl, and...

Bloop. There it was. Steaming perfection: Italian Wedding Soup. I chose it because it was meatier. Ha! Food humor. I glanced around. There were a few heroes who gallantly stuck around to try to stop the full extent of the damage, but not many. Most looked confused, but one older fellow caught my eye and gave me a bit of a nod. I could see the fear in his eyes. He understood. Not many did, but he did.

Young heroes love to make fun of me. They think my name is stupid. It's not as stupid as "The Whizzer" though. It's just my name: Stu. They say I don't have a nemesis because I'm so "lame." It's not true, of course. I used to have a nemesis, years ago - the Sandwich Artist. Killed a family and made them into sandwiches. Nobody heard of him again, he just vanished one night.

Soup night.

I really do love soup...

It’s a meteor. 25000km/h is at the lower end.

A sapper has been hiding for days under a bridge, waiting to blow it up after half of the invading crosses it.

What if you have a live chat, only for writing prompts. Then people who want to write, look on there for a while and make a post with the prompt as a title and the story as the description (making sure to @ the person who's prompt it was).

This would reduce the number of empty prompts, reduce the number of people writing on prompts that have already been done to get upvotes and make new prompts more relevant.

Gives me Truman Show vibes.

Never smile at a crocodile.

No, no I’m serious. Stop grinning at me like that, I am being perfectly serious. Look, it’s written right down there in the book, see?

Yeah. Yeah, that’s right, I’m not joking around. It’s a rule, an actual rule. You never, ever smile at a crocodile while you’re working here.

Oh sure, it seems harmless enough, once you start smiling at that crocodile, we’ll, you might be tempted to stop and chat a while. Soon, you’ll be taken in by his welcome grin.

And, before you know it, you’ll find out how well you fit within his skin.

So I’m telling you, newbie, never smile at a crocodile.