The Writer's Block

for all your amateur writing needs

[qualna]

WP: A blind man and a blind woman fall in love at first “sight.”

I sipped my coffee in silence, listening to the world around me. Voices floated like music past my ears, and I drank them in, savoring their taste much more than the bitter coffee. The barista had forgotten to put sugar in, and, of course, I hadn't been able to tell until the first sip. Just some little setbacks that come with being blind, eh?

"Jesus Christ, did you hear about her at the party last night? God, how could somebody be that stupid? She drank eight shots of tequila in four minutes, what was she expecting..."

I winced. Well, that killed the mood. Great. Now I couldn't hear anything else over her nasal voice. I tried to shift my focus away, but her scratchy shrieks kept clawing at my ears--

My table rattled, shaking my cup around, spilling a few drops of boiling hot coffee on my hand. I grunted the pain away, gritting my teeth. Someone stammered an apology from beside me. "Oh! I-I'm sorry!"

Oh, no. Her voice was cute. Her voice was way too cute. I prayed she didn't see me blushing. "It's fine, it's fine," I said, turning my face away.

I heard her draw in a breath.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I drew in a breath. Oh my God, his voice was so cute. Hopefully, he didn't hate me f-for burning his hand. I could practically hear his skin sizzle as his cup tipped. At the very least, I'd already lost any chance I'd ever had.

Eh.

I-It couldn't hurt to try.

I looked in his direction, hoping my eyes didn't wander far from his face. "U-Um," I said, trying my hardest to keep the stutter out of my voice, "are you a regular here?

He paused for a moment. It wasn't an awkward pause. At least, I d-didn't think so. "I'm here most mornings," he explained, "just to, you know, drink in the sounds. It's a nice way to start the day. That is, unless you spill scalding coffee all over your hand."

His voice was light, easygoing. It was a-adorable. I felt my cheeks flush with color, and I turned away, looking at the ground to hide them. "Sorry," I spoke quietly.

"S'alright," she felt air fan her as he waved his hand about, "Ain't the worst thing in the world."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"S'alright," I said, waving her apology away. "Ain't the worst thing in the world." The worst thing is the reason I can't look into your beautiful eyes right now.

"You wanna take a seat?" I motioned to the chair across from me. "Listening to the cafe is fine and all, but sometimes it gets boring having nobody to talk to."

She gasped under her breath, just loud enough for my ears to pick up. "Y-Yes," she stammered, "I wouldn't m-mind."

The chair across from me squeaked as she pulled it back. By some strange miracle, even that was cute.

We chit-chatted for minutes, then half an hour, then an hour. I could feel my mind slipping away to the clutches of love with every sentence that passed between us. Man, if we weren't meant for each other, then I don't know--

Ugh. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. This would all be pointless unless she knew I was blind. There'd be no reason to even try anything unless I told her now.

"Hey," I said, breaking the content silence between us that I hadn't even noticed 'til now. "I've gotta tell you something important."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey," he said, his voice cutting through the silence I'd been enjoying. "I've got to tell you something important."

My heart began to race. Oh, God, w-was he asking me out? Was he just as head-over-heels for me as I was for him?!

I-I had to tell him. Before this went any further. He had to know, know that I'm blind, that I would never be able to see the w-wonders of the world with him, never hike the mountains and gaze out in the distance together...

"I'm--"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm blind, they both said simultaneously, his voice low and disappointed, hers shrill and quavering.

She almost fell backwards out of her chair. He remained utterly still, his mouth hanging open, his sightless eyes staring ahead in awe.

You're blind, they said together. They smiled.

He held his hand out over the table, and she took it, feeling the warmth of his hand over hers like a blanket.

We're blind.

Hand in hand, they left the cafe, patrons staring as they maneuvered clumsily through, the lady giggling and the man chuckling every time they knocked into a table or each other.

[qualna]

WP: Humanity is at war with an alien race that cleverly uses statistical analysis to predict and anticipate our military actions with incredible accuracy. The only way to defeat them is to be unpredictable.

"Yes. Set up the voice projectors. There is only one accursed thing so random that they will never be able to counter it. It'll fry their damn green-ass brains."

"But..."

"Do it. The fate of humanity depends on it, and if they wipe us out because you were too much of a damn pansy to follow an order, I'll make sure the whole world knows before we're obliterated."

"... Pressing the playback button in three, two, one..."

holds up spork

[qualna]

WP: Obama won’t stop calling your twelve-year-old son for advice on foreign policy.

Please don't be his number.

Please don't.

She picked up the phone, listening to it crackle vacantly for a minute. Finally, a voice came from the other end. "Hello," it spoke regally, persuasively, "may I speak with Jamison? We are in need of his wisdom on the subject of our foreign affairs with Russia. Thank you for your time."

"S-Sir," she stammered, rubbing her hair nervously, "erm, I don't know how to say this, but my son is twelve years old. I-I think you have the wrong house. Excuse me for asking, Mr. President, but was it not evident from the past few hundred times I've told you this week?"

The phone fizzed and popped in the silence between them. "I understand," Obama spoke in a defeated tone. "Thank you for your time."

He hung up.

How long would this respite last? Oh, maybe she'd actually be able to get some chores done, take Jamison to hit some tennis--

The phone rang.

By God, what did he want?! You know what, screw it.

"Hello," that accursed voice poured from the receiver, "may I speak with Jamison..."

She blocked the rest of his rehearsed little speech out. When there was silence again on the phone, she sighed. Nausea built up in her throat as she replied. "Fine. You can talk to Jamison, just so long as this is the last time you call us. Okay?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you for your time." God, what was he? A broken record?! Thank you for your time. Thank you for your time.

"Jamison!" She heard him stomp noisily from his room, filled with all the vigor only a twelve-year-old boy could have. He came through the door to the living room, innocent worry written on his face. "Y-Yes, ma?"

"Now, I want you to be on your very best behavior," she began. "President Obama is on this phone right now. Jamison, answer whatever he asks as best as you can. If you don't know, then tell him as much. He needs help for his huge job, and you're just the man he needs."

Jamison's face lit up in wonder. "R-Really?!"

She handed him the phone reluctantly. "See for yourself."

As he took the phone, his face became stony. He stared at it for a minute, then raised it to his face. "Yes, Barack? What do you need me for this time?"

Uh... Had his voice gotten deeper? Businesslike?

"Yes, yes. Always a pleasure. On the subject of the Slavs today, hmm? Damn, Russia has been troublesome as of late..."

"Jamison!" Had he just cursed? In front of his mother?!

He turned back to her, that innocent smile written on his face once more. It was downright unnerving. "Mom, could you wait a few minutes? I just need to finish this up." He didn't wait for an answer, twisting away and losing that smile in an instant as he went back to talking to the president.

"Send a few diplomats to the Ukrainian-Russian border, make sure the Slavs all know it is for remediation purposes only...

She listened, dumbfounded, for another twenty or so minutes. After he hung up, he was back to his normal, kid self. He waved to her, grinning, as he returned to his room.

Tentatively, hand shaking just the slightest bit, she picked the phone back up and called the return number. Obama picked up instantly. "Yes, ma'am?"

Not even a doubt that it would be anyone other than her. He hadn't even waited for her to say hello. "U-Uhm," she mumbled, "i-in the future, if you need my son again for... Russia, y-you can speak with him. Alright?"

A blast of static came from the other end. Obama was laughing. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you for your time. Your contribution to America is a noble one."

He hung up.

"Jamison," she called, "want to go for a treat at the diner? It's on me."

"Sure, mom!" The very definition of innocence. The very definition.

[qualna]

WP: An English and a German platoon fight in a battlefield. As the battle calms, only two soldiers remain: One Englishman and one German.

"Nein..."

A voice tickled his ears. The wind carried it to him from yards away, cutting through the dying moans of his brothers-in-arms.

Agh, Jesus. The mortars had struck friend and foe alike, dashing the lives of hundreds. Damn Churchill. It was his fault they were in this bloody hellhole, fighting krauts they didn't want to fight.

"Route to me," he called feebly, pushing himself up from the ground. He teetered, imbalanced on one arm, and fell back down. Why had he only used one arm?

Oh, God.

Oh, Jesus.

A bloody, burnt fucking stump was all that remained of his right arm. His shooting arm. God, how hadn't he bled out yet? Where was the pain?

By some miracle, he twisted and contorted until he was standing. The ground swam underneath him, but he kept his balance. His effort was met by a single, solitary sob in the distance.

"English?" His voice quavered as he called, and he gave a quick prayer, hoping to God that was an ally he heard. The sobs continued relentlessly.

He carried himself step by lumbering step in the direction of the sound. He could hear the accent now, simply by the ugly way the soldier sobbed. It was a kraut. Judging by his bawling, he was in a damn bad state.

The Englishman stared at his stump, pausing in his step. What even was his name? Were there names in war, or was he only one soldier in a sea of thousands of dead? Fuck. Fuck. He was losing his damn mind. The ground shook underneath him as if he were in an earthquake. He continued walking.

The German's blubbering was audible now. His tone made his brutal language almost seem soft. As the Englishman drew nearer, he found tears swimming in his eyes.

There he was, crouched over some body, shaking it and sobbing harder every time its lifeless head lolled to one side. He didn't notice the Englishman. "Kraut," the Englishman whispered, his voice cracking.

The German's head shot up, and the Englishman saw in those eyes fear, fury, trauma. The kraut reached for a pistol that lay on the ground, then stopped, eying the Englishman's stump.

"Peace," the Englishman croaked. The kraut understood that much. He batted the pistol away, and it slid into an open trench, making a sickening plop as it fell to the sticky mud. Taking one more look at his departed ally, the German stood up, locking eyes with his sworn enemy.

"So," the Englishman said, then winced. His stump throbbed. When had it started hurting? "This battle is over. And by God, neither of us have won."

To his surprise, the German nodded. The kraut held out his left hand, palm outstretched. He was still sobbing, but his tears were no more than an afterthought. All that mattered was the friend standing in front of him, torn from family and a normal life just like the German, for the sake of a war neither believed in.

The Englishman's head throbbed. His stump throbbed. His entire body screamed. Still, he held out his only arm and took the German's hand.

"Peace," the kraut said.

"Peace."

The Englishman fell to the ground, life flowing out of him in a torrent.

[qualna]

WP: Today you have completed all that is required to become a Paladin. You go deep into the woods to pray and find out which god is your patron. You are chosen by the god of wine, music, and partying.

Yggdrasil stretched out in front of me, tall, looming. I was here. It was time.

My sword hand was sweaty as I unsheathed my blade. This would hurt, but I had given my life to hurt so that others may not. I winced as I drew the blade across the naked wrist of my shield-arm, blood pouring like a gasket of beer let flow.

Wait, what? Why had I thought that? I had given my life to piety, holiness. A god would surely not choose me unless I cleared such thoughts from my mind. I shook my head vigorously, feeling my brain swish about like a fine glass of wine.

No. No! I could not! Unless... No, let it not be so...

"Bacchus! Aw, c'mere, ya pissy kid! Congrats!"

A voice boomed from the heavens, its sole recipient me and me alone. No, this could not happen. Fate had gifted me with this name, yet I'd worked night and day to become its opposite. Bacchus! What parents would dare name their child after a prince-god of wine?!

"I can hear your thoughts, ya know! Bacchus can, too! He's one o' my fellow partygoers. Bacchus, say hey to your namesake! He's under me now!"

"Oyyyyy," a smaller, higher-pitched voice called from above, "it'sh me boy! Hyehck, that rhymed. Welcome to the service of th' high and mighty Vinum! Paladinsh disciplin' under him is rare." Bacchus giggled. "Yer' lucky!"

My ears burned red with disgust, disbelief, hatred. This could not happen. Not to me. I had worked all my life against this.

My sword lay on the ground, blood still tinting its edge. As I watched, it transformed, oh-so-painstakingly-slowly, the blood turning to wine and the sword to a mashing stick. I could hear Bacchus and Vinum giggling together on high, taking infinite mirth in the destruction of my very being.

Suddenly, my face slammed to the ground, a weight appearing on my back and driving me down. I knew what it was before I unhitched my shield strap. My beautiful, beautiful shield, painted with lilacs of gold and silver trimmings, had  turned into a crudely-cut half keg of beer. It would block nothing save the beer bottles of rowdy patrons.

"No," I whispered. Bacchus and Vinum giggled still. My eyes swam, tears (or was it wine?) filling them to the brim. No. No. No. No.

A headache tore my brow asunder, and I could feel the last bits of my morality drain away like wasted fire-brandy down a drain..

... It was over.

I picked up my grape-mashing stick, licking the sweet, sweet ichor that lined its side.

It tasted delicious.

"So, Bacchus," Vinum bellowed from above, shooing away Bacchus the prince-god as he focused his attention once more on me, "how do you like being a paladin of the great and might god of wine, music, and partying? Eh?"

A smile spread across my face. I stood, equipping both my sword and my shield, raising them to the heavens in praise. My teeth were stained with wine.

"Bruh," I spoke, infinitely joyous, "let's get this motherfuckin' party started."

[qualna]

WP: We finally have the technology to record and watch our dreams. However, we never expected the ramifications of watching our own nightmares.

"This is a prototype, as you know. Be careful."

Yea, yea. Isaac waved off his assistant. He had spent his entire lifetime working on this, and he sure as hell wasn't going to piss off now. His assistant (what was his name, again? George? He was useless, anyhow) bit his fingernails nervously, watching as Isaac rubbed down the smooth steel of the contraption with cloth for the thousandth time. It shone. It was beautiful.

The morning sunlight flitted in through the large windows of the lab, falling across George, illuminating the extent of his worry. "Sir, I'd advise you to not test the nightmare functionality yet. I scanned over your coding last night, while you w-were asleep in the seat, and it seemed a tad... glitchy. I'd honestly advise not to test it at all yet, not the nightmare or the dream you ha--"

"Quiet." One quick snap, and George fell silent. Isaac hated that look he wore. He was scared of progress. What kind of self-respecting scientist cowered from progress?

Isaac took it all in once more. It was simple; two steel chairs, one a recorder, one a playback, both covered in hundreds of nodes. Connecting them in the back were a multitude of wires that ran through a central processing box and into the other chair. It was so simple. But it would work. By God, it would be a stunning success.

"Sir... Isaac..."

Isaac ignored him. He took a seat in the playback chair and stared at his assistant until he slowly, slowly, slowly moved to the control panel that hung on the back of the lab. "The dream?" George asked as his hand hovered over the button.

Of course it would be the dream. That was what George wanted, and Isaac was a nice, frightened, progress-fearing scientist, just like his assistant.

Heh.

"The nightmare." Isaac took relish in the astonishment that lined George's face. It was too sweet. He couldn't deny his superior what he wanted.

George's face turned to stone, and he smashed the button down with his fist. Isaac grinned in triumph as he sat back.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christ almighty. He’d gone under. Isaac, the damn fool. This couldn't turn out well. How did George end up placed under this guy's orders?

The entire room was silent. He watched as Isaac's body relaxed in the chair, the nightmare creeping onto him. He wasn't screaming, or squirming, or reacting much at all. Yet. Hopefully, it would stay that way.

George.

What? Was that... Isaac's voice?

Isaac was still asleep on the chair. Great. Now he was fucking hearing things. The sooner this test was over, the better.

Something flitted at the edge of his vision. In the next moment, everything went dark.

"What the fuck?!" George's voice sounded small, far away. He couldn't feel himself. He had no body. He didn't exist. He didn't fucking exist, he could feel his conscience tearing away, he--

Turn it off, George! Stop it!

He was back in the lab. God, it was dark. God, Jesus, what had they done?!

Dark forms scurried about the corners of his vision. What was happening?

Go!

He lunged for the power cables. The stop button was too far away. He slipped, fell, landing hard in some kind of goo. The power cord was right within his reach. He could unplug it. Coughing, uncontrollable coughing stopped him for a moment. In the next, he was reaching, he had to reach—

The roof of the building was ripped away, revealing a dark, deep purple sky above. Black clouds swelled, pouring down thick drops of the shit that already flooded the lab. That damn goo. George felt each individual drop as it fell on him, staining his labcoat, staining his skin, staining his fucking soul.

The power cord.

Unplug it!

The goo was bogging him down. He tried to lift his arm, but he couldn't. He... He...

He broke free in a burst of brute strength. As he pulled the power cord from the socket, he felt the fragile wires ripping apart, protesting under his steely grip.

It was over. The machine would work no longer. The broken wires could attest to that.

The skies cleared in an instant. George's vision was free of those damn... things.

Isaac was kneeling on the ground, coughing, sobbing. "What... have I..."

What had he fucking done? Jesus. George listened to him go on, muttering, crying. He was barely comprehensible. His words melded together, one into the other.

No. That wasn't Isaac. Even through his tears, he was speaking fine. It was George who couldn't hear him.

As he listened, straining to make sense of something, anything he heard, the sound around him grew quieter, until it eventually faded out entirely. He was deaf. His eyes were swimming.

His mind was already gone before he fell to his knees, dense fog enveloping his vision as another one of his senses was stripped away. Isaac watched in horrid fascination as his assistant crumpled to the ground, shaking, kicking wildly as if he were in a fit of epilepsy.

Isaac felt a drop.

"We've released something," Isaac whispered, feeling his mind slip off its hinges. George didn't hear him.

George was dead.

Black clouds littered the sky like bruises, infecting a peaceful world and marking it for death.

[qualna]

WP: In a world where dreams can be synced, you decide to share with a friend. They end up having a nightmare, but for you, it’s bliss.

It worked.

"Sam," I shouted into the blank expanse, my voice echoing until it was no more than a whisper tickling my ears. "Sam? Is this, like, the pre-dream or something? It's completely empty in here!"

My voice slowly, slowly faded away. Wow. Was this his dream? I glanced around, searching for anything in the endless, dull grey infinity. God, it was disorienting. Where was I even standing? Did I have legs?

I patted down the lower half of my body. It was there. At least, by touch. I craned my neck down and confirmed that I could see it, too.

Wait.

What was that on my side?

I twisted my head, looking at my hips, trying to discern what it was. It was blurry, and incredibly hard to see... Some kind of holster. A sheath, a six-shooter holder, something like that.

I scanned around again. Still nothing. Wait. No.

"Rrrraaaaaagh!"

Holy shit. Someone, some thing whose face was blurred to nothing more than a smudge, charged at me. I didn't think. I drew and shot.

He (or she, who knew what it was?) twisted grotesquely, screeching. In a flash, he was lying on the ground in a pool of blood. I held the new-found pistol up to my face, watching it quiver from side to side as my whole body shook. Damn.

That had felt good.

Another person charged at me from the nothingness, screaming, and I shot again. He dropped, and I shivered as a wave of ecstasy washed over me. Another came. Shot. Another.

The next one came charging just like the rest, but he was not screaming. He merely grunted in dumb fury. Shot. That had been, what, the tenth? When would I have to reload? Did this gun even have a clip? It was a dream, but... Eh. Fuck reloading. I had more important things to do.

Another. Shot. Oh, that felt good. This one hadn't even made a noise. Had it hesitated as I'd raised my pistol? Flinched?

Another. Shot. More.

I was lost in the frenzy of bloodshed, and by God, I didn't want to find my way out. Was that one... That one wasn't even running towards me. It was running away. Oh well. Shot.

Hah. Fuckin' hell, this was therapeutic. Fun.

I shot, but this time, I heard a tiny, tiny voice. It didn't come from the faceless person as he fell from the bullet hole in the back of his skull. It came from far away, distance reducing it to no more than a low murmur.

No...

That voice... It was familiar. Weird.

Oh, another one running. Shot. A laugh escaped my throat, surprising me. That had sounded off. A little creepy.

No!

There it was again, closer this time. God, it was so damn familiar... Why was I here, again? Was there somebody... There was somebody...

Another runner. Shot. It held its face in its hands as it crumpled to the ground. Was it crying?

"NO!"

The next runner shouted that as he ran towards me. Not away, like they had been for a long time now. What the fuck?

Shot.

... Wait. This one... It had a face.

My mind cleared in an instant. I dropped the gun, falling to my knees, feeling the tears run down my cheeks. It was him. I had shot him. "Sam?"

He lay still, blood spreading from the ragged hole that ruptured open the back of his head. His hair was matted with blood. His entire body was soaked in fucking blood.

God... What had I done? This was his dream, I'd decided to visit, it was a prototype build of the device, but still...

Wait. This was Sam's dream. You couldn't die in your own dream, could you? It always ended right before... before...

How was I supposed to get out?

[qualna]

WP: Write about a character that is convinced they’re dreaming.

Her vision swam in front of her. Her eyes drooped closed.

They were open again. She couldn't make out what was in front of her. One moment, an empty expanse shivered infinitely. She blinked. There was a figure in front of her now. She couldn't see its face. She could see its slender figure, the way it held its arms across its chest. It was familiar.

Her vision swam in front of her. Her eyes drooped closed.

"Al..." A voice flitted about in her head. One syllable. That was all she heard. Al.

Where was she? Why couldn't she see? What kind of horrible nightmare was this?

Blink.

Her vision swam in front of her. She blinked the haze away again and again, yet it never cleared. Each blink brought a new scene that floated lazily in the dream.

Empty white walls. Extending forever. Blink.

She could feel a hand on her. Where it lay, she couldn't tell. It pressed, squeezed, and her whole body seemed to sink into the ground. Blink.

A slender figure stood in front of her. It had no face. It held its arms across its chest, distressed. It was familiar. Blink.

"... er’s..." The word tickled her ear. Blink.

She was screaming. What kind of fucking dream was this? She was screaming. She couldn't stop. Faceless figures crowded around her, and underneath her screams, she could hear pleading, begging, crying. One faceless figure held its arms across its chest. It was worried. It was familiar.

She made out one figure separate from the rest. It wore something white. Something bright. It was shaking its head. She felt it lay its hands on her, felt the reverberations of its voice as it spoke.

"Alzheimer's."

Blink.

[qualna]

WP: Diseases can be induced to separate from their host and take a physical form. The host is cured of its disease if the disease is killed in its induced form. The graver the disease, the more monstrous the form takes. A team of doctors decide to save a gravely ill child.

He loaded a bolt onto his crossbow. Funny, how things had changed. Reverted.

Ever since the creation of the Separation Serum, work on cures had halted completely. Governments around the world cut medical funding. Leave it to the doctors to learn in their new profession, the world agreed as it left a people turned upon their heads.

Well, fuck them. He had gone into the medical field as a young, happy man. He had remained a young, happy man, even through the countless hopeless surgeries and failed treatments. Until the Serum.

Now, he was a demon slayer. One among many, and he hated it.

They were impervious to guns. To tranquilizers. To anything modern. Silver was all that worked. Now, he and the doctors forming a protective circle around him were like mythical hunters from fantasy, always searching for the next prey, yet taking part in none of the thrill. This was all torture.

But he needed the money.

So he would continue placing the lives of him and his friends on the line. There was no other choice. The world had left medical research behind.

"Ready," one of the doctors turned inward, giving him a worried grimace, "or... or do you need some more time?"

Of course the slaying was up to him. He was the only one here capable of even wielding a crossbow, and it sure as hell wasn't a good idea to take a sword to something this serious. The closer you were, the worse.

The kid was dying by the minute.

He felt the silver on the tip of his crossbow bolt. Someone was going to die. Even if he reacted as fast as humanly possible, the demonspawn would lash out and kill one of the outer circle before he could so much as bring the crossbow to his shoulder.

He couldn't miss this shot.

"Ready."

One of the doctors at the back of the circle pressed a button. The serum needle lowered until it was just above the dying boy's arm, then plunged, sinking deep into his vein.

Somebody was dead already.

It appeared beside the boy instantly. No delay, no warning. A grotesque mass of heads and arms, more like a huge lump of flesh than anything else. One of the doctors lay dead in front of it, cloven in half by a razor-sharp tongue.

He raised the crossbow to his shoulder.

Another one dead. A spindly, impossibly long arm had grabbed him by the neck, snapping it instantly.

He let the bolt loose.

The thing screeched. Doctors fell back, pressing themselves to the hospital walls. Its blood-curdling cry rose to a crescendo.

It might still live. He cocked another bolt and shot it. It buried in the monster, right next to the first, blood spurting from the wound as it sunk deep. The screaming redoubled.

It was dead.

Its body evaporated, leaving behind nothing save the bodies of two brave doctors. One was the man who had asked him if he was ready. No. None of them had been ready.

The boy's eyes cracked open, seeing the after-battle bloodbath as his first lucid sight in so, so long.

The boy needed to be consoled, to be shielded from what lay in front of them. A few of the doctors moved over to his side.

Finally, a chance to rest. Until the next patient reached critical condition and he had to do it all over again.

[qualna]

WP: A child is lost on a battlefield.

Steel clangs.

"H-Hello," a lone voice calls. There is no response save for the grunts of faraway warriors. She spins around in a circle, wide-eyed. Desolate wastes laid in every direction. She'd rather not notice the still lumps that decorate the landscape.

"H-Hello," she calls, stumbling, falling. Her face is mere inches from the coarse, bloodstained dirt. No. It's not blood. She isn't seeing blood. There could never be this much blood in the world.

The sound of steel reverberates through the air. She can hear curses from far away, where small skirmishes still rage on. They were deafening when she had first come to. Now, they are no more than ghastly whispers in the distance.

"H-Hello," she sobs as the wind kicks dirt into her eyes. She is still kneeling on the ground. She can't stand up. Her entire body is coated with slimy sweat, the midday sun burning every inch of her exposed body. She is dead. She is alone, and she is dead.

"You fucking Canmar shit!"

She gasps, her sob catching in her throat. That was clear. He's close. She pushes herself off the ground with a strength she didn't know she had, pivoting her head to survey the endless plains once again.

There. "H-Hello!"

Neither of them hear her. Sparks fly as the one who had shouted parries blow after blow. He is tired. She is scared.

The other, the Canmar soldier, presses on. He drives the shouter to his knees. She can see the dust covering the shouter's face; the empty socket where his eye should be, the lines that detail his face in wild criss-crosses. The Canmar lifts his blade high above his head, preparing the final blow.

"H-Hello!"

The Canmar glances over at her. That was all the old one had needed. As the Canmar turns his eyes back to his opponent, he finds a sword through his stomach.

Neither of them say a word. It is eerily silent. She is weeping.

Then, the Canmar grunts, swinging his sword down with all of his might. It cuts clean through the old shouter's armor, lodging in his chest. She is screaming.

They both fall to the ground, dead. They have left her.

She is alone.

And she is dead.

[qualna]

WP: In a world where all weapons have been destroyed, one person manages to build one.

Ah, the perfect world. No fighting. No conflict. Harmony abounds, and the Regulators keep it that way. Utopian society!

Peace.

Prosperity.

Love.

Rules.

Laws.

Punishment.

Confinement.

Dullness.

Madness.

She will not stand for it. Oh, no. Every day, damn it. Wake up. Designated job. Exchange smalltalk. Keep your rumors to yourself and only to yourself; wouldn't want a Regulator on you. Keep your desires to yourself. Keep your fun to yourself.

Keep your bloodlust to yourself.

The Regulators may keep the masses down with force of will, if nothing else. But they've forgotten in the long, long years of peace. They've forgotten. They don't know what a real weapon is. One that kills, not one that calms.

Heh. Calms. Regulators have calmed her all her life, and where is she now?

In her designated living area, door locked, hands working. Connecting. Creating. It's so fucking beautiful.

A stirring spoon, heated until it's soft and malleable, filled with tacks. There are so many of them now that her hands are pricked and bloodied anew every time she adds another. The pain is addicting.

Of course, this will never kill somebody. But it can gouge their eyes out. She can shove it down their throats. She can poke them full of holes and watch as blood wells up in millions of tiny spots on their frail bodies.

She will torture a Regulator until he screams. If she is released from society, then so be it. It will be worth the fun.

[qualna]

WP: Only musicians are born with emotions, and can distribute them temporarily for the duration of the song they play.

The Great Day, video recording:

The recording buzzes in on a newscaster.

"Hello, people of Greensboro. Millions clamor today to squeeze a spot into the Grand Musical Distribution Center. A world-renowned composer will be playing. He will be starting soon.

"I will not attend today, and if you are watching this broadcast, neither shall you. I lacked the necessary funds, and by rule of likelihood, you did as well. Perhaps in the future we will all acquire a glimpse of feeling.

"The performance shall be starting right... now. This news report is now finished. Goodbye, citizens of Greens...

"Citizens of Greensboro. Y-Yes, goodbye. Perhaps in the future we will all acquire a glimpse of feeling-- cough. What? What?

"Citizens of Greensboro, please, do not turn off your televisions. I... Holy shit, I can feel. People, do not turn-- Claire, Claire, can you, too? I don't hear any music. Do you? No?

"We aren't hearing any music over here at Channel XXI. But we can feel. Citizens, if you are feeling any sort of emotion at all, please, call our news station number: (NUMBER OMITTED). Call it if you feel anything. Please.“

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Oh, the phones are flying off the hook! Can-- can everyone feel? Everybody?

"What? Josh, what did you say? I can't hear you over the ringing. God, I can't even see you. I think I'm crying. Is this what crying is like? Wait, wait, Josh, tell me, what did you say?

"... The musician is no longer performing. Yet, I can feel. E-Everyone here at the news station can feel... Can we get somebody live at the Musical Center? My God..."

The video fades to static for a moment. It returns to a reporter standing outside the Musical Distribution Center.

"Y-Yes, thank you, Matt. We all still have emotions over here. None of us have a clue what is happening. The musician-- the musician just disappeared after his performance. He went offstage, and now nobody can find him.

"Matt, Matt. I-I think this is the greatest thing to ever happen. We can all feel. Everybody in Greensboro can, I know it. People are outside their houses, cheering, crying, screaming, what-have-you. God.

"Run a check, somebody look up another town's news station number and call them... Something has happened... I can't believe..."

The recording cuts to black.

[qualna]

WP: Choose a mundane activity and turn it into a dramatic, epic tale.

Fingers bob and weave and flutter about, almost too fast to be seen. They create.

The craftsman spins his silk; it forms in front of him, a beauty to behold. Ah, if only his creation could be made a reality!

Fingers fly. This one will warm hearts. It was easy to create: Pick a base, apply some detail, and there you have it. Its fabric wears thin and ends on a cheerful note, one that inspires, comforts, heals.

No. It will not do. He has made too many of these before, and his patrons clamor for something new. Innovative.

He will give them something innovative.

This time, his hands press, tap, forming something that will depress. It will wrench hearts from the very chests of the people. He cannot help but let a maniacal grin creep onto his face. This will become a bestseller.

It's almost too perfect. It is built up, right to its climax, when suddenly, tragedy appears. It is burned. It is ripped. It is ugly. It is beautiful. Millions will cover themselves in this garment of words, hating it and loving it at the same time.

His fingers slow to a halt. That is enough. The first draft is done. He saves the file and shuts his computer down, smiling.

Nobody will expect a tragedy from a novelist who's written nothing but fairytales.

[qualna]

WP: You come home and find a second “you” dead on the floor.

Loops are hard to close. It's a damn shame when I can't finish 'em off.

Take, for instance, today. Here I am, minding myself, doin' nothing in particular, and I come home to me. Dead me. Not alive me. Dead.

Do you know what this means? I couldn't close a damn loop, and it ended sour.

I traveled to the future for some reason or another got murdered in my own home. That made an alternate version of myself, don'tcha know. The laws of the universe kinda safeguard me from royally fucking myself over. From my point of view, I never did travel to the future; some other me from some point in the past did, and it looks like I fucked up.

Now, somebody tell me: What can I do? Naw, don't answer. The answer's nothin'.

I can just drag alternate-me away and get him ready for burial. Damn floor's slick with blood. It's good there's woods in the back. The only saving grace for my mistakes, I guess...

... I wonder who killed me? Body's cold. Must've been dead for a while.

... I could take a quick look-see.

Hey, you know curiosity killed the cat? That's a load of shit. If I can just travel back a few hours and wait around, maybe catch a glimpse of the guy...

I'm there. Well, I'm not there. I'm there, but alternate-me isn't there. Maybe I traveled too far back.

The door opens. Ding dong, it's me. You know, maybe I won't watch him die. Maybe I can tell him in advance, and he can live and when I get back we'll just be two of the same dudes chillin'. I could make my own twin.

Door's agape. Where is he--

Oh.

Fuck.

There's the knife. Right through the gut. Exact place I found the wound on dead alternate-me.

Except that I'm alternate-me.

"They made a mistake giving you this gift." Moist breath covers my ear. Damn coward is gloating, whispering like a fuckin' creep. I can't turn around. He has my head held in place. Fuck. My vision's going out.

No.

No, my fuck-ups always get fixed. This can't happen. I can't die here. N-Not for real.

“Goodbye.”

Curiosity killed the fuckin' cat.

[qualna]

WP: Write a setting without characters and still tell a story.

The stones are chipped, crumbled; wind sweeps through a gaping hole in the cobble. Save for the forlorn whistle of lost gusts, it is silent.

Minutes pass. Smoke begins to billow in alongside the wind, filling the room until the air is too thick for breath. It collects and cakes on a large boulder in the middle of the room, colouring it black with ash.

The haze covers the blood that stains the walls.

An illustrious drawing lies on the ground. The colours of a king already long-forgotten bleed together, forming a horrible visage where there once was a noble one.

The smoke billows in faster and stronger, choking all air from the room. The entire kingdom lies aflame now.

One dagger sits propped up against the cold stone, forgotten and abandoned in haste. Its blade is wet.

The heavy smoke falls on the dagger, and the last remnant of war is obscured.

[qualna]

WP: You have a pen that can answer any test question correctly.

Teach borrowed me her pen. Thankya, thankya. Won't make a difference, ‘cuz I'm gonna fail.

The test waits at my desk as I begin the long, long walk back from the teacher's desk. It's starin' back at me, all cruel-like. It's plain scary.

I sit myself down. It is starin' at me. Question one...

Nope. Not a clue. I tap the pen on my desk. Click. Clack. Ideas, ideas, c'mere, gimme some sorta clue to to the eighteenth prez of the States!

Whatever. I hold the pen over the first question. Eenie, meenie, minie, moe. Pick an answer and hope it rolls. Good luck to me, uh-huh, a toast to all the dumb kids in the wor--

The pen dips down and circles B. I swear to God I didn't do that. I look up for a sec. Teach catches my eye. Look back down. Great, now she's gonna think I'm tryna' cheat.

I ignore her stare and hold the pen over question 2. I don't even read it. Suddenly, it dips down. D. Well, damn. I suppose Lincoln's election caused the secession of Virginia. Was probably asleep during that lecture.

I try it on 3. It answers for me. If this is some cheap trick, I don't know it. But, hey, the answers make sense once they're circled. Kinda like a light switch flipped on in my dummy brain. I can feel Teach's eyes on me. I haven't even looked up in, like, eight minutes or somethin'!

I blaze through the test. Just as my pen finishes circling question 50 (answer's C), I feel a hand on my shoulder.

A breath on my ear. "It seems I gave you a very special pen of mine, Fink. May I have it back?"

I'm shivering. "S-Sure," I mumble. The whole class is lookin' at me like I'm some kinda weirdo. "Here's my test, too," I add, shoving it into her hands along with the pen.

"Oh," there's a creepy-ass glint in her eyes, "I gave you the answer key, Fink. Why didn't you come to me sooner?"

The class is laughin' their asses off. "I-I," I stutter.

"We'll retest after school today. Plus," she gives me a knowin' look, one sly as the Devil hisself, "I believe I have something very important to talk with you about."

She waltzes confidently back to her desk. The class is laughing and ooo-ing. My face is burnin'.

What in the seven hells did she just pull on me?

The bell rings. "I'll see you then," she says as I scuttle out. The look she gives me says You know too much plain as day.

I am not stayin' after today, that's for sure.

[qualna]

WP: Jesus is brought before Pilate. Instead of sentencing him to death, Pilate names him king. However, Jesus knows that he has to die, and he’s trying to change everyone’s mind.

The crowd was silent, watching, waiting. Pilate spoke, his voice carrying through the mass of onlookers in front of him. "A man claims himself the Son of God. People of this great nation, what say you to this?"

The Son remained silent, head bowed. He waited for the screams of rage, for Barabbas to stride confidently off as a newly-freed man while the Holy One was taken away in chains. A smile traced His lips.

There came a quavering voice from the back of the crowd. "Maybe 'e is? Son of th' God up there, yeh?"

As if by some strange miracle (not one that the Son had performed, certainly) the silent crowd grew even quieter. The scuff of sandal-clad feet could be heard on the rough earth as nervous attendees fidgeted.

"Is that so," Pilate spoke, his voice piqued with interest. Here. He would say it now. Jesus waited.

"Aye, that is so," Pilate answered himself, nodding, a jovial smile dancing on his lips. The Son glanced at him, bewildered. "We have seen the miracles," Pilate continued, "Water into wine, the leper healed. We have all heard the tales. Who else could this man be but the Son of God?"

What?

"He shall take his rightful place as king of this nation!" Cheers erupted with Pilate's words. The One watched Barabbas sputter as He almost did Himself. This would not work. He was not meant for this. For the people of the world, He had to die. Crucifixion was but an unnecessary addition of symbolism that He would have to forego.

"Barabbas," Jesus spoke, and the crowd fell deathly silent. "They name me King. I ask you this: Will you repent before me now, or shall you grasp at your sins like rotting fruit, so succulent on the outside, yet evil and dark within?"

That was all it took. Barabbas screamed with devilish, primal rage, breaking free of his bonds in a devilish furor. Jesus heard Pilate yell No as the Son was picked up, still bound, and thrown to the ground. The guards could not react in time.

Barabbas committed his final horrible crime just before he was speared through the back. He knew not the good that he had in truth helped flourish.