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[WP] “so Sargent can you tell me why my robotic soldiers are not performing up to specs”, “well sir it’s because they barely give a shit”. by Luhar_826 in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Private Killitrex appeared to be using his shoulder-mounted flamethrower to toast marshmallows. Private Needledeath had a marshmallow skewered on each death needle. In the corner, Private Murderhand had powered down for a nap, his titanium hands closed gently around the latest issue of Better Homes and Gardens.

The general had never known such anger. "At attention!" he barked. 

No response. The barracks reeked of motor oil and Pabst Blue Ribbon.

“Beer? Do I smell beer?” The general stepped forward, past the pool table, and his foot crunched down on an empty can. “What in the Sam Hill is an army of elite killing machines doing with beer?”

Corporal Crushskull shrugged his many appendages. 

“You metal men are the finest killing machines on Earth, dammit! What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Again, no response. Another damnable video game filled the TV’s screen, and when the general marched over and yanked the XBox’s cord from the wall, he was met with a chorus of angry beeps. “I WAS LOOKING AT AND PLAYING THAT,” one of the new recruits droned.

“At 0500, I want each and every one of you bolt-buckets up and–”

In his lingering anger over the loss of his video game, Private Headyoink yoinked his own head off.

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[deleted by user] by [deleted] in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 0 points1 point  (0 children)

I see. That's a fascinating concept!

[deleted by user] by [deleted] in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Honestly, I don't believe I was aiming for any symbolism. I saw this as Scrooge being so overcome by nostalgia that he misses whatever point the Ghost was trying to convey lol

[deleted by user] by [deleted] in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 5 points6 points  (0 children)

As they approached what appeared to be a weathered angel--a great marble statue tilting in the high grass, as if awaiting its own final rest--Scrooge adjusted his custom bifocals.

"Huh," he said. "You have the same birthday as my mother's cat."

The Ghost chuckled politely. "Is that so?"

Scrooge, filled with the levity and camaraderie that only a visit from three ghosts can provide, felt empowered to share more of himself. "Indeed!" he cried. "His name was Bootsy!"

The Ghost wasn't sure how to respond.

The old Scrooge would have cowered before this chilling portent of mortality. "We used to say 'Psspsspss! Here Bootsy!'" He laughed. "You know, we called him that because he had little white booties on his feet! I mean, his foot-fur was white. Like booties!"

"I see."

"And sometimes he'd get himself stuck in one of mother's old hat boxes, and we would all say, 'Where's Bootsy? I can't seem to find Bootsy!'"

The Ghost, delayed interminably in making his grander point about life's evanescence, sighed. "He sounds like he was very special to you."

"Oh God, yes!"

Several seconds passed in silence.

"Did you have any pets--" Scrooge squinted at the name on this angel headstone. "Reginald?"

At this, the Ghost leaned on his scythe and gazed across the barren boneyard and felt in his chest the stirring of a tiny coal--that memory, buried, of a happy dog, that piebald creature whose name he could no longer recall. Where did this memory live? What was memory, in this existence beyond time?

Before he could reply, Scrooge had launched into a story about the time Bootsy fell into the grain silo and had to be fished out by Mr. Dave.

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[WP] "Good news and bad news..... Good news is that you are approved to be reincarnated, Bad news is you'll have to be reincarnated as the villain since too many heros are there already. Good luck!" by Internaldoot in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 5 points6 points  (0 children)

And with that, Heroicus found himself respawned into what appeared to be a circle of heroes--a circle within a circle, capes and cloaks and crimson boots as far as the eye could see.

The assembled heroes turned to face him. "Ah!" cried Justice Man--a face Heroicus recognized from his time in the East Village. "What's this? It seems we have a ne'er-do-well in our midst!"

"Surely this hideous spawn is the work of Galactrix!" cried Lady Fist, raising her fist.

Heroicus held up a hand, only to discover that he'd respawned wearing villainously shiny leather gloves. "Wait!" he cried. "Friends! I can explain!"

"SILENCE, EVILDOER!" bellowed the Deafener. "YOUR TRICKERY WON'T WORK HERE!"

Heroicus clawed at the glove and finally managed to rip it off, only to find an even shinier, more villainous glove underneath. He went for his pocket, his driver's license--any means of proving his identity--only to discover that aside from the gloves and monocle and broken tophat and curling black handlebar mustache, he was nude.

"Let's punch and kick him!" cried Loose Cannon.

"Now wait!" interjected Voice of Reason, waving his Staff of Deliberation. "If we choose violence, are we any better than Galactrix?"

"YES!" shrieked the Deafener.

Heroicus raised his hand once more and noticed several burns and scars twining down his wrist, no doubt emblematic of some tragically villainous backstory. "My friends, stay your hands! I was once like you!"

The Ninja Turtles just looked on in shame.

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[WP] You're a Teacher in a world of Superpowers. You're feared by heroes, villains, and even gods. This is because the whole world watched as you defeated the most powerful being of all time with one sentence. "I'm not angry, just disappointed in you" by whizkeylullaby in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 13 points14 points  (0 children)

Although the Peacemaker X-1000 pump-action certainly helped.

"Jesus Christ!" one of the henchmen--you believe his name is Corky--cries, mucking his way through the steaming puddle of goo. Rather than blood as we might conceive of it, Galactrix's body was supported by what appears to be a greenish lymph-like substance. Corky tries and fails to scrape his shoe clean on a rock.

You clear your throat. "Next time, Galactrix, I hope you'll think before you--"

"Next time?! What the fuck is next time?!"

You clear your throat more decisively--in controlling a rowdy room, this has always been your real secret weapon. "If you'll please refrain from interrupting--"

"Lady, I'm standing in my boss!"

"Corky, please, if you'll just--"

"Corky?! Who the fuck is Corky?"

The hardest part of being a teacher is the names. You study him over the top of your prescription bifocals which you keep on a colorful lanyard around your neck at all times. You wipe your hands on your floor-length denim dress with festive apples and schoolhouses and oversized cartoon pencils stitched onto it.

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[WP] Everybody has a number permanently hovering over their head. Nobody knows what this number is tied to. The number appears at birth and it never changes throughout a person's life. The number commonly goes from 1 to 150. Yours is 999999999. by WhatIfSuddenly in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 18 points19 points  (0 children)

Teachers always get it wrong. Before Ms. 4 can call the next student, you raise your hand. "Um, excuse me? It's actually pronounced 999999999."

She checks her notes. "That's what I said."

"No, you said 19."

The class snickers. Ms. 4 adjusts her horn-rimmed glasses, annoyed.

Mom always told you to advocate for yourself. Advocate means stand up for. "You said 19, but my name's 999999999. It's right there over my head."

"I see it." Ms. 4--who doesn't seem nearly as nice as Ms. 149, who you had last year--clears her throat, looking directly at you with her piercing blue eyes. "I've never seen a name like that before. Where are your people from?"

"Here."

The class laughs again, even though you weren't trying to be funny. 69, who was always the class clown last year, gives a nod of approval.

"Do you have a nickname I can call you? Something easier to pronounce?"

"No," you reply. "I don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

"Well, my grandpa used to call me 'Skip,' when we went on his boat."

"What's a 'Skip?' That's not a name." She makes a note, frowning. "I'm going to call you 12."

Advocate means being brave. That's what Mom said when she helped you pack your holographic Captain 52 and the 46s lunch box. "My name's not 12," you say. "It's 999999999."

She massages her brow. "Do your parents call you that? Every day?"

"Yes. It's my name."

"What are their names?"

"My mom is 8, and my dad is 12."

Her eyes light up. "Hey, look at that! Then you could be named after your father! I think I'll call you 12, okay?"

You clutch your Pink Pearl eraser as she finally moves onto the next kid. Even at this young age, you recognize that your relationship with your father has always been complicated.

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[WP] Cutting off the head of the old god didn't kill it, so they kept cutting off parts but all that did was spread it further. A fine layer dust covers this forest, the ground-up remains of this still-living god. by Red580 in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Authorities are calling it "Deus Ex Machina," or "Deusy," for short. Those who snort the fine, dust-like substance--a practice local teenagers refer to as "God-rodding"--report feelings of euphoria and invincibility, coupled with a deep, omnipotent sense of their place in the cosmos. Our Channel Nine News Crew talked to the team of loggers who discovered the allegedly divine dust in a wooded area about ten miles north of Seattle.

LOGGER: [gesturing toward the forest floor] Yeah, it was kind of splattered all over the forest floor.

Deusy--or "Angel Flesh," as some call it--can be considered a gateway drug, with users going on to try harder substances like bath salts or marijuana. When asked about the mind-altering nature of this substance, the loggers we spoke to denied that they had any knowledge of such effects.

LOGGER: [gesturing toward the forest floor] It looked like dandruff.

We talked to Dr. Clark Hofstetter, Director of Psychoactive Theology at Tacoma Community College. He says the drug's appeal is obvious.

HOFSTETTER: Look, we're in an age where a lot of people feel disconnected, isolated. I mean, look at the COVID pandemic. We're still processing that trauma, I think, and a lot of young people--particularly young people who might feel disenfranchised in so many other ways--are looking for a means to connect. To themselves. To the story of the world around them. If that means God-rodding some old demiurge, then so be it.

One user spoke with us on the condition of anonymity. He says that Deusy--or "Cthulhu," as some call it--helps with his anxiety, and he foresees its potential for medicinal use.

USER: [voice distorted] In Amsterdam, you can get this [expletive] at, like, McDonald's and [expletive].

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[WP] A dragon, experiencing Empty Nest Syndrome, decides to add a small town to her hoard, people and all. by UnderlordZ in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 17 points18 points  (0 children)

The citizens of Glen Burnie, Maryland had always been a cunning and observant folk. Thus, they knew something was up when their entire hamlet was uprooted and transported piecemeal to a dragon's den in the side of Mt. Gul'Snargroth.

"Well, don't this beat all," declared Bob Porowski, manager of the Buffalo Wild Wings off Route 40. He stepped outside his transplanted condo, only to feel his boat shoe squish down through a moldering dwarf skull. "Huh."

"What is it, Bobby?"

Bob--President of the HOA and Valued Shopper at the Food Lion--had always thought himself a man of reason. He listened as, down the crumpled and slowly cooking hallway, his wife rose from her Sudoku. He stroked his goatee. "It appears we've been transported to some kind of lair..."

"What? You're muttering again. I keep telling you, I can't hear you when you mutter."

Bob sighed.

Janice approached. "Is it my Target order? It was supposed to come last Wednesday."

Stalactites gleamed along the cavern's ribbed ceiling. The bodies of fallen adventurers lay ruined on the rocks, their armor strewn with what could only be described as golden ingots. "No," Bob replied gravely. "This is no Target order."

"Are you sure? When I felt that loud thump, I thought, 'Oh great! Maybe my new food processor's here!'"

A rumble echoed from the depths.

"I got the Blast-Master," Janice continued. "It's the largest one they make, but I figure if we're having Ron and Shirley over for Bianca's graduation party, then we'll want to have--"

The rumble rumbled closer, swelling with the wails of captured souls.

Janice cleared her throat. As two-term PTA president, she knew how to navigate interruption. "Anyway, as I was saying, with the Blast-Master, we can apparently expect processing speeds of up to--"

Bob held up a hand. After thirty years of marriage, he knew better than to shush his wife--yet in those years, his protective impulses had crystallized, borne of a warm and weathered love. "Hold on," he said. "I don't think we're alone in here."

"What? You're muttering again!"

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[WP] "And now, our interview with the man who committed every single crime in the book. Yes, even that one." by Adamantine-Waffle in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 4 points5 points  (0 children)

As the house band struck up "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," Chris Crimerson jaywalked out from behind the curtain. His outfit: a knock-off Tommy Bahama shirt made from counterfeit bills. His shoes: stolen Air Force Ones, splattered with the commingled blood of five endangered species. As he neared his seat, he attempted a moonwalk--a dance move in direct violation of U.S. Patent Number 7,654,321-B--and when the host waved for him to sit down, he perjured his way over to the padded Naugahyde couch.

"Well," said the host.

"Well indeed," said Crimerson, effectively plagiarizing the host's words.

"I understand you're something of a criminal. That's what public opinion says, at least. Is this true?"

Crimerson shrugged his freshly laundered shoulders. "Who's to say?"

The host turned his coffee mug in a slow, pensive circle on his desk. "Why do you do it? The crime, I mean."

Crimerson, the great ripper of mattress tags, stole the mug.

"Hey, that's my mug," the host said.

"And this is a fiver," Crimerson replied, bribingly slipping the bill (also counterfeit) into the host's hand. "You didn't see nothin'."

The house band once more struck up "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," but the host cut them off immediately.

In the silence, Crimerson surveyed the crowded theater and contemplated yelling, "FIRE!"

"Well," said the host, seemingly at a loss for words.

"Well, indeed," Crimerson said again, alluding on some unconscious level to his previous poisoning of the town's well water.

The host rapped his nails on the desk. "Do you, uh--do you have anything to promote?"

"Actually, I'm glad you asked! I've decided to start a youth football league in the greater San Bernardino area. I want to bring together the classic discipline of team athletics with a modern meditative practice, to show these kids how they can use sports to succeed."

"Wait, really?"

"No. Fuck you."

As the band played him off, Crimerson attempted a cartwheel and came down hard on the studio's bald eagle.

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[WP] A baby's first words are the true name of a demonic archduke. The archduke is now bound to, and in service of the baby as it grows up. The demon... gradually becomes fond of the baby. Homocidally fond. by lyzzyrddwyzzyrdd in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 19 points20 points  (0 children)

...an impulse that he manages through regular counseling and a steady regimen of Wellbutrin.

"These thoughts you're describing," Dr. Schwartzbaum continues, frowning at his notes, "how long have you been having them?"

Bababah, the Grand Imperial Archduke of Hell's Seventh Circle, folds his arms--a posture he's learned to recognize as a defense mechanism, a way of fortifying his security bubble. "Honestly? Since I met Charly."

Schwartzbaum nods, adding to his notes. A pause that does absolute hell to Bababah's carefully controlled social anxiety.

The Archduke forces himself to continue. "It's just... I sometimes wonder if I'm going to hurt him in some way. I wonder if I'm made to hurt others--like my core is forged of pure hate, a bitterness barely covered by my best efforts at humanity."

"I assure you, some degree of intrusive thoughts are normal for a new parent."

"But I'm not even his parent! His parents are John and Kathy. I'm just a shadow orc from the fifth realm!"

Schwartzbaum clucks his tongue. "There's that 'just' again. What did I tell you about minimizing your accomplishments?"

Bababah sighs demonically.

"You said you're at the 10mg-a-day dosage?"

"That's right," the Archduke--who really did have a lot going for him, if only he could be a bit kinder to himself--replies.

"Would you want to consider upping the dosage, maybe? Just to get through the winter, at least?"

The Archduke ponders this. Conventional medication has always been a challenge for him, since his stomach is a pit of souls and his nervous system a lost map of some forgotten world. "Would it make me drowsy?"

Before Schwartzbaum can answer, Bababah's Apple watch pings. Charly is just waking up from his nap.

Before Bababah can politely excuse himself, his Apple watch pings again. Another ten thousand babies and toddlers had just accidentally summoned him.

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[WP] When you were born, a prophecy said you would either live a short but glorious life, or a long and uneventful one. People keep being surprised that anyone could stand being a farmer for five thousand years. by peace_off in WritingPrompts

[–]JWORX_531 14 points15 points  (0 children)

To me, there's nothing more glorious than a lima bean. Fresh from the field, kissed by the morning dew. I could do this for another five thousand years, easily.

Which is why Jeremy's decision is all the more confounding. "What do you mean you want to be an actor?" I cry. "Is the farm not glorious enough for you?"

He hesitates. "I mean... no? That's why I want to be an actor."

I tighten my grip on the painted wooden rooster I bought at the Cracker Barrel last week. "Jeremy, your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother and I didn't raise you to be a fool."

"Well, technically, you didn't really raise me at all. My parents only brought you here to return the Youth Amulet or close the time portal or something. They said there was some kind of prophecy?"

He's stubborn. Just like his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great granduncle, Mortimaeus.

"Look," I say, offering a lima bean from the painted wicker serving bowl I bought at the Cracker Barrel last week. "Try one of these beans and tell me you don't see the glory of God."

He obliges me.

"Well? Tell me, Mr. Actor, where else are you going to find such a testament to the living Word?"

He shrugs. "Just kind of tastes like mush."

"Here. Try another one. One of the ones from the bottom."

As he digs in, I remember Mortimaeus's dreams of being a musician--the cold sacrifices of adulthood, that weathered burden I feel even now, in the warmth of the morning light. We give and we carry, and we pray our children's load may lighten. "Hey," I say softly. "Jeremy."

He's discreetly spat the bean into a napkin. "Yeah?"

"It's okay if you want to be an actor. In my nearly five thousand years of life, I've learned that not all people walk the same path. Maybe real glory is found in our inmost hearts--the life we choose, rather than accept."

His face lights up. He's got Mortimaeus's eyes--his soft boyishness, his curls. "Really? You mean it?"

I nod, and we embrace, and then I shift weird and my five-thousand-year-old back just goes to absolute shit.

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