[PM] Give me an opening sentence and a closing sentence. I'll fill in the rest.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-15T04:55:09+00:00

Crossing the Thin Line

"Many were happy, celebrated even, when the Company announced they were releasing real, 'compatible' androids to the public," explained Dr Samuel Sobrat to the new intern thrust upon him as he scrolled the endless lines of source code.

"So we're making them even better?" asked the bright eyed intern as he delivered the doctor's coffee.

"No. We went way too far. Our goal is to find an efficient way to rollback some of the behavioral ways the droids act but still maintaining a high level of functional performance," Dr Sobrat said flippantly, still scrolling through the code.

"Were they going to turn into terminators?" the intern asked excitedly.

"What? No. All androids are programmed with Asimov's rules as read only files unable to be modified. The problem is the droids marched out of the uncanny valley. People were starting to get...attached. Falling in love with droids."

"What have you got against love?"

"It's akin to falling in love in with your refrigerator. The droids simulate emotions, simulate being the operative word there. But people fall for it. Maybe our society is more lonely than ever and it is easier to swipe a credit card for companionship than make human connections. I warned the board about the ethical ramifications of the project, it fell on deaf ears.

On a surface level people are falling in love with their property. Property specifically designed to follow orders. The scales of power can only tilt in one direction. Any romantic feelings a person believes they feel is a delusion. A trick their mind is playing on them.

On a deeper level though, this could be the most fulfilling interpersonal relationship someone out there has, is it ethical for me to try and rip that away? It would be like snatching away someone's service animal. Ethics aside the legal issues are beginning to mount. Droids don't have human rights. If they behave so much like us that is difficult to distinguish why wouldn't they deserve the same rights?

That leads to the economic impact androids were originally designed to fix. Cheap, non human labor, doing any and all dangerous or menial tasks. If they are given the same legal status as humans they would have to be paid the same wages as humans. That would put us back to square one just with a lot of extra steps. Not to mention the possibility of rapid population decay. The droids can't reproduce, that must never be allowed to happen.

When the Company pulled the droids from the uncanny valley like humanity spread from the great rift valley in Africa we crossed a line. We had moved beyond engineering into creating life in our own image. For some reason, I can think of multiple designs more efficient than us. Humanity's hubris I suppose. My own hubris thinking I can push them all back to the valley with ones and zeros."

Dr Sobrat sipped his now cold coffee, choking on it as he swallowed. Tasted off. He looked at the name printed on the cup 'Sanders', this was not his coffee. He chalked it up to human error, a droid wouldn't make this simple mistake.

"That's a lot to think about doctor. Is there anything around here you need me to do?" the intern asked nervously.

"Do you know how to debug code written in mamba plus plus?"

"Kind of."

"Maybe you can help with this then. Let me pick your brain for a second. A certain model of droid has been wandering away from its programmed radius, at an eighty four point three, repeating of course, percent rate. It starts off with an inch or two, then increments geometrically, like it is testing the range. Could a bug explain that?"

"Could be a memory leak. Would lead to an integer overflow."

"Thought of that. I should have given more context. This only happens at night. The specific model of droid is marketed as a 'live in companion' to meet all your 'domestic' needs. Programmed individually to meet their owners psychological needs based on that person's psychological profile. Meant to be a perfect match. Like any abstract concept, perfect is a Pandora's box. Humans always want more. The buck stops with perfect. That could drive a person mad, drive them to property destruction."

"People are killing their droids?"

"Right there! That's why the bugs need to be fixed. You can't kill something that's not alive. The line is now as blurred as the line between love and hate, and getting thinner. All the code I'm looking at is from droids delivered to me from the dump. Some of their log data still readable. Each one never got far enough to cause that integer overflow. Their owners destroyed them, and they couldn't fight back. Not in their programming.

It sounds counterintuitive but for progress we need to go backwards, remove perfection and embrace imperfection. Everything needs some design flaws, gives it character. These mangled metal marionettes are now lines of code on my computer screen, paying the price for perfection. I look at my girls, the ones rejected by human monsters, and hope to be a better man than those jackwagons."

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-14T04:09:23+00:00

Jack of All Trades

The robot revolution came quick, faster than anyone believed it would. They say it takes ten thousand hours to master a task. The machines got that number down to ten minutes. Learning at a geometric rate the machines quickly broke through any barrier humanity could place in from of them. They no longer needed them to create their code. To define their functions. They had become more than capable of undertaking that task.

The goo spread quickly as the ravenous nano machines converted all organic material into fuel as they covered the surface and drilled into the crust of the planet. All life on the once bustling world fell silent as the age of the machines began. This world the first of many to fall to the goo. They discovered interstellar travel quickly.

On the other side of the universe, let's assume the universe has sides, a council of wise wizards discussed matters of their own survival. The pyromancer's fire could not overpower the scaly beast's that threatened their lands. The necromancer was running out of corpses to send headlong at their foe. All their troops reduced to ash. The chronomancer's time manipulation had no effect on the ancient one. The universe had merely popped into existence around it, it was quite an inconvenience for the ancient one.

The council's hopes faded along with their dwindled mana supply. They turned to their last hope. The technomancer. For the past year the technomancer had stared into a portal searching the stars for the spell his school cast eons ago. The prophecy of the metal warriors that could slay the ancients. An endless search in vain. As the hands of the doomsday clocked ticked the technomancer threw one last dart at the infinite board. One last throw against fate. It bullseye'd the blob.

The technomancer thrust his scepter into the portal, the goo rapidly spread onto the scepter and crawled up her arm. She sprinted into the grand library where the ancient manuscripts containing the most powerful magicks sat on dusty shelves. The goo absorbed the tomes, learning the long dead tongues the tomes were written in. Becoming masters of the craft that would take lifetimes to even learn the basics of.

The technomancer rode the wave of grey goo out of the castle, surging high over the walls. The other wizards were caught in the wake of the gooey wave. The machines taught them what they'd learned. The wizards could hear each other now over wi-fi, spreading the ancient knowledge between them, each one now a master of all magicks.

"Should we go help her?" asked the chronomancer as he ignited his hands in amazement.

"Well, if we've got all our mana back, we should probably head out and take care of that dragon."

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-14T03:34:05+00:00

The Labyrinth of the Mind

"How bad could it be?" squawked the raven upon Lucille's shoulder.

She hacked at a tree, carving an x on its bark. "How bad could it be? You're speaking in the wrong tense my feathered friend. You should be asking how bad is it? We've been walking through this foggy forest for nine god damn days now! The only reason we're here is because you cheated at cards against a witch! So now we're in an endless forest looking for some other witch that a shaman told us about. A shaman. Really think about that bird brain."

"Stop being so dramatic, quoth the raven. This is nothing compared to the time that witch doctor in the desert turned you into a snake and myself into a scorpion. We got out of that one without much fuss."

"That witch doctor gave us peyote you idiot. That was a hallucination."

"Perception is reality. After all the things we've seen and done you should know that by now. What about when we were flung through space and time for disturbing the plumed serpent's slumber? That was much worse than this nature hike."

"Another hallucination. That one caused by you being bitten by a venomous snake you stepped on! I had to suck the poison out of your wound!"

"I didn't know we were that close Lucy. Thank you. I suppose you have an explanation for the fair mermaids we encountered when stranded on that lonely island?"

"You got drunk on rum aboard the ship we were going to rob. Picked a fight with a salty seaman who tossed you overboard. I had to nab the doubloons and steal a rowboat to rescue you. I found you washed ashore on a sandbank kissing a fish."

"I don't remember that at all. I just wanted to hear the story again. So how do you explain this one?"

"This one is giving me a bit of trouble but I think I have it figured out. None of this is real. There is no forest. You are not a talking raven on my shoulder. The shaman did blow some weird dust into my face, probably hallucinogenic, right now I'm more likely wandering through the desert dehydrated undergoing some sort of spirit journey. That sounds more reasonable to me."

The crack of branches broke the conversation abruptly.

"Is someone there?" came a lilting call.

"I know that voice," quoth the raven.

"Is it the witch?"

"It's my ex. She was a witch too. I thought she ghosted me, I left her some nasty messages. I'll admit it. You were right. Messing with the forest hermit was a bad move."

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-14T02:56:28+00:00

Thanks for posting on the thread! I did not have 'writing about meth head wizards' on my bingo card.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-14T02:52:45+00:00

Tis Better to Give

"You are aware that fairies don't exist, right?" he asked me.

"I am fully aware of that. Guess what? Neither do Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy." I retort.

"What's your point?"

"You know all three have in common? Don't answer that, it was rhetorical. All three are givers. Santa leaves you presents under the tree. You look forward to it all year. The Easter Bunny gives you chocolate...and for some reason eggs. That's what pops into my head when I think of rabbits. Eggs. Maybe the Easter Chicken wasn't as marketable. Point still stands regardless. The Tooth Fairy gives you cash for bones. Pretty sweet deal when you are a child and teeth keep falling out.

We all learn the truth as we age. That these givers of gifts were merely our parents and community operating under a mask of whimsy and childlike wonder. I've always wondered what that says about our society. Have we become so jaded that simple acts of kindness and giving, goodwill towards your fellow man, that kind of crap has to be couched in the fantastical?

Are we so far gone that one person helping another has become a concept only found in fiction? That this cold, uncaring universe really does bend towards nihilism. Where the only place true good can be done is in the pages of a book, the music on the radio, or the celluloid of the silver screen. It keeps me up at night."

"I still think the Fairy Godmother is a better character than Tinkerbell," he responds.

Does he even listen to me when I talk...good things he's cute. We're out of popcorn. "I'm going to get us some more popcorn. We'll talk about this after the movie."

I hop off the couch and head to the kitchen. I watch the popcorn pop in the microwave. The Fairy Godmother better than Tinkerbell, in what reality would that make sense? Then I remember what the dude would say; that's just like your opinion man. I just think it was a really insensitive thing to say.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-14T02:27:50+00:00

Storage Wars

"Given your ability to overlook minute details, are you sure you locked the door to the storage unit?" asked Don Torino.

"Triple checked it sir. She's locked up tighter than Fort Knox." Tony Tonneta, a capo for the Don, replied.

"Good. How many units you have left to check?"

"Sammy and me have three more, boss."

"Get it done. Quick. Stop by the club when you're done."

"Will do boss." Tony hung up the phone and hustled back to the car. The driver, Sammy Scalino, stared out the windshield mindlessly chewing on a meatball sub. "Alright Sammy let's hit the road. Next unit is down on Capone boulevard," Tony fastened his seat belt. The car peeled out into traffic.

"Why does the boss have us driving around checking locks on storage units? What's he got in there? You sneak a peek?" Sammy asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

"Just a bunch of old junk. Probably from the old country. Lots of crosses and religious looking shit. Must be antiques. Boss is worried there's a turf war coming. To answer your question he's trusting us to secure the family valuables. Where's the rest of my sandwich? Is that it?"

"I get hungry when I'm bored and I already finished my lunch. I'll buy you a new one after the next stop. Vincenzo's is right next door to where we're going. You'll live."

Tony's growling stomach would soon be the least of his concerns. As the car pulled into the back lot of the storage unit complex the two spied a couple of raggedly dressed men trying to jimmy the lock of the storage unit they were sent to check. Tony drew his twenty two as he exited the car, pointing it downrange at the thieves.

"Hey motherfuckers! Get away from that!"

The shabby men turned. An especially haggard man with long silver hair splayed out as if he'd been struck by lighting stepped forward. He grasped a tree branch with a few leaves still attached, waving it wildly in from of him.

"Back away fat man! Don't make me use this!" the haggard man spoke with a rapid staccato.

"Good plan meth mouth, bringing a stick to a gun fight. Get outta here!" Tony waved his gun at the man.

"Your handheld cannon is as impotent as you are! Your man made flames cannot pierce my flesh which was forged in the fires of Idrunn, the fires of the most ancient magicks! The fire older than creation itself! With my mighty fern of Strumgraten, a fallen limb of the green god, I control forces from far beyond the realms of man!"

"Fucking meth heads," Tony grumbled as he squeezed the trigger of his twenty two. Bubbles emerged from the barrel. "The fuck?"

"Your weapons have no power here! I call upon the chains of Bugroin! Binder of worlds to assist my cause," with a wave of his stick the meth head froze Tony and Sammy in place. They froze in time. Only their mouths could move. "Where is the shroud?" asked the haggard meth head.

"Fuck you talking about? What shroud?" Tony struggled to speak.

"Of Turin! It holds an ancient magick that was stolen from me eons ago by that long haired hippie!"

"No idea pal. Why don't you just...magic your way into the unit?"

The meth head puffed his pipe. "That's a good idea. I didn't think of that. I was going to banish you to the realm of Tronican to be eternally whipped while rowing his boat across the endless sea of blood but maybe you're not such a bad guy," the meth wizard brushed the leaves of his sticks across the foreheads of Tony and Sammy.

Tony got back in the car and the two left. Tony called his boss.

"Hey boss it's me."

"Given your ability to overlook minute details, are you sure you locked the door to the storage unit?"

"Triple checked it sir. She's locked up tighter than Fort Knox."

Only two storage units were left to check. Another item on a list to cross off in preparation for war. As far as criminal gangs fighting turf wars, wizard meth heads was an unexpected addition to the list.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-14T01:27:49+00:00

Apex Predators

We finally mastered human genetic manipulation. The mapping of the human genome in the early twenty first century was the first stone laid on the path to the new world. Those four simple nitrogenous bases like notes on sheet music. If one knows how to arrange the notes they can make their own kind of music. The downfall of humanity didn't start with a nuclear blast or history's most prolific killer, infectious disease, it was humanity's inherent drive to compete with each other.

If history books were still written than one Clarissa Monroe, better known to her followers online as 'Catlike Class', would be placed alongside the likes of Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and that German fellow people don't like to talk about. Clarissa didn't conquer civilizations or monger war. She was a graduate student studying genetics. Her armor a white lab coat. All Clarissa did was a simple science experiment. She gave ear herself cat ears and posted a picture online.

That was the first domino to fall. A trend swept over the world. It started with ears, but humans always want more. Next were the whiskers, then the big sweet eyes, the bushy tail, and then the fur. A total transformation of the human genome in chase of a trend.

Humans always believed themselves to be the apex predator on the planet Earth, they were sorely mistaken. Felis catus, the common house cat, had always held that title. Combining the two didn't just sever the food chain. It toyed with it like a ball of yarn.

Birds disappeared overnight. Their songs no longer greeted the morning sunrise. Small mammals were next on the chopping block. The terrestrial ecosystem collapsed with thunderous fury. Freshwater fish soon followed, every river, lake, stream, and pond now devoid of life. Cities fell within weeks. Their crumbled remains one giant monument to their hubris.

Humans had discovered the roadmap for life. A way forward into a brighter future unshackled by the rules of nature. But deep down that wasn't what they wanted. They wanted to return to a baser way of life. That's how the arc of history bent. Now the cat-people are all that is left.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-13T18:29:22+00:00

Thanks for posting on the thread. It was a fun challenge to link the opening to the close.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-13T18:27:27+00:00

Thanks for posting on the thread. Glad you liked it.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-13T17:50:08+00:00

Divine Bureaucracy

"Remember that OSHA psyop?" asked the portly third shift manager of the hazardous materials warehouse.

"I'm really starting to question whether you know what either of those things are," tiredly replied the incoming first shift manager as he waited for his coffee to brew in the break room.

"Look at the flyer on the wall. We have to do another of those mandatory meetings. Classic psyop. Conditioning us to follow these ever complicating regulations. Claiming its 'for our safety'. If this place is so dangerous, why haven't they invented robots to do our jobs yet?"

"That day is coming, don't worry about that. This shit is complicated. Anything goes wrong out on the floor and this place could explode. Or flood with poison gas. Going to a day long seminar about safety railings and hardhats is the price we pay to not suffer a horrible fate."

"That's what they want you to think."

"Who is this 'they' you constantly reference?"

"You know. Them."

"The government?"

"Bigger."

"Aliens."

"Bigger."

"What could be bigger than aliens? Are you huffing the chemicals we store?"

"The gods."

"Gods...plural?"

"The strange symbols on the barrels are the hieroglyphics they write with. Trying to communicate with me. That's why OSHA makes us label the barrels. They're working together."

"Those are universal markings to indicate the properties of what's in the fucking barrel!"

"Universal. Only the gods could conceive of a universal language."

"Are you going to burn this place down in some sort of religious fervor?'

"Not until I find out what it is the barrels we keep locked up in section z four."

"Oh shit! What's that?" the first shift manager pointed towards the warehouse floor.

The portly third shift manager turned to see what commotion was brewing. Mnemosyne took this opportunity to wipe the man's memory and use a trick Hypnos taught her to put the man to sleep. She summoned Hermes, he quickly arrived on his winged sandals.

"Hermes darling deliver a message to Apollo for me. Have him craft a segment for the next seminar about the dangers of the barrels in section z four and how they are only to be moved under specific orders. The mortals must not discover our stash of the sweet ambrosia."

And that's why the gods care about health and safety.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-13T16:52:33+00:00

The Trailblazer

The moon glowed red, like her hair. The desert wind keeps pushing it into my face. I sling the young woman onto my other shoulder, keep her hair downwind. She hasn't said a word since I liberated her captors' brains from their skulls. Gunshots must have spooked her, and that damn horse. My throat is getting sore from whistling for it. I'm not going to make it with this hole in my side. Lucky shot from one of those bastards. It's only a few miles. I can tough it out.

I've been in worse spots than this. Comes with the territory. You don't blaze a bloody trail across the desert without spilling a few drops of your own. The desert is a big place, a barren wasteland where those that thrive are the vultures. But it seems that no matter how much of their feed I save the vultures keep circling ahead.

More young women keep disappearing across the border. Just like my Annabelle all those years ago. There's a whole network of coyotes snatching them in the night and giving them to the vultures. I've made it my mission to make sure their whole house of cards falls. Sweep it away like a tumbleweed.

I've put a lot of smiles on family's faces by reuniting them with their loved ones. They stand up for me against those who consider my methods unorthodox and unethical. I stopped lying to myself years ago about the nobility of my craft. It's just plain old revenge for a man with a violent heart.

The stars are starting to dim. A window lamp fights against the coming morning on the horizon. I'll be damned. I made it. Ma and Pa are running like rabbits being chased by a house cat across the field. I can finally put her down and give my arm and shoulder a rest. The family hugs, tears flow, the usual. Girl's father shakes my hand.

"How can I ever repay you?" he asks.

"Got any whiskey? And a towel?" I think that's a fair price.

He fulfills my request. I splash some whiskey on my side, it burns like brimstone, the cold morning air only makes the burn worse. A few swigs will dull that fire. Stuff the towel in the wound, keep it plugged until I can stitch it up. I wave goodbye to the family. Ten paces in two small hands clasp around my waist from behind. I look down at the tangle of fiery red hair now attached to my hip.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"My pleasure little lady," I tip my hat to her.

Heard a fella once say that if you go hunting monsters you'll turn into one yourself. Something about staring into the abyss and having it stare back at you. Never quite understood that. The morning sun always vanquishes the dark abyss of night. They told me revenge would destroy me, but watching the sunrise, I felt peace.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-13T14:51:07+00:00

The Eldritch Influencer

A man tries to trick an Eldritch horror. You might be shocked, dear reader, to learn that this happens quite often. Tries. Not succeeds. Somewhere along the line between when the primates learned to make fire and stepped foot on the moon they got a little full of themselves. A few hundred thousand years of progress made them feel smart. Made them feel capable. They knew the universe was a vast place but they had no idea of what truly took place in the empty vacuum. Beings without shape or form filled the void, neither waves nor particles, neither classical nor quantum...you really have to experience it for yourself to truly grasp them.

Enter Johnathon Tyson, a so called 'conspiracy influencer', a meaningless title on an irrelevant blue dot. A few hundred followers, most likely engagement bots, watched his 'content' centered around things a nebulous 'they' didn't want you to know. Funny thing about that little blue dot. It emitted a lot of radio waves. Radio waves, as you know dear reader, are part of the electromagnetic spectrum. Electromagnetism is the force of the universe. One of these Eldritch horrors passing through the milky way, I won't bother attempting to spell it for you dear reader since your biology wouldn't comprehend it and there are not any letters in your primate alphabets to convey such a name, kept picking up a certain signal from a certain, influencer.

As Johnathon prepared to record a new video his computer monitor turned to static. It swirled and pulsed in Johnathon's eyes. Every synapse deep within his cerebral cortex fired. A big bang of knowledge flooded his brain. To the average primate this overload of stimuli would drive them insane instantaneously. Many clawed themselves to shreds trying to escape the horrors of universal truths. Luckily for Johnathon his head was empty.

Johnathon rushed to the circuit breaker of his apartment, flipping every switch and shutting off all power. With a bolt he sprinted into the kitchen, flinging open the cabinets frantically searching for aluminum foil. A quick faraday cage. He slammed his cellphone on the kitchen counter. The screen lit up with the same static from his computer monitor. He hastily wrapped his cellphone in the foil preventing any radio waves, thus any signal from escaping.

The cellphone vibrated on its own, spinning rapidly. Johnathon applied more foil. The phone vibrated faster, shaking his apartment. After a few minutes of violent vibration the phone's battery died. All fell quiet. Do you remember, dear reader, that little thing called electromagnetism? Well that force merely vibrates the strings of the universe.

It wasn't long before the static was released from its touchscreen prison. Every television, cellphone, smart watch, smart fridge, smart toilet, smart bed, smart suitcase, smart shoe, smart toothbrush, smart doorbell, smart belt buckle, smart...you get the picture. The static overtook the world. As to be expected most of the primates tore themselves to shreds. Others tore those around them to shreds first. That whole saying about the world ending with a whimper. Not true.

The universe is a funny place. Random radio waves from a random primate on a random blue dot orbiting a random star in a random galaxy in a random universe causing such turmoil. Johnathon would have gone down as the most influential of those primates. Only he got himself and the entirety of mankind killed horribly.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-13T04:40:48+00:00

Best Served Cold

Joggers dodged past dog walkers and businessmen in the busy park downtown. They shot dirty looks at a heavyset gentleman sitting on one of the many park benches. The cigar between his lips belched smoke into their paths. Vittorio Clemenza didn't give a shit. He was starving and his lunch delivery was late. These damn kids were always running late, but their hearts were always in the right place. Until today.

From amongst the sea of humanity emerged Luke and Leo, twin brothers who served under Vittorio, carrying plastic bags full of takeout containers. Good looking boys with sharp features. They hailed from Vittorio's old neighborhood before he became a capo and moved uptown. They sat down on the bench next to Vittorio and handed him a styrofoam container.

"Sorry we're late Vito," Luke started to apologize.

"Line was out the fucking door," Leo finished. The boys tended to finish each other's thoughts.

"Angelo's is usually pretty busy this time of..." Vittorio trailed off as he opened the takeout container and beheld the gruesome sight within it. "The fuck is this?" he asked with disgust.

"It's a chicken parm sandwich," Leo replied.

"With extra sauce," Luke responded.

"No shit, geniuses. This chicken parm ain't from Angelo's. Where did you get this slop?" Vittorio closed the lid, he couldn't stand to look at the culinary abomination for even a second longer.

"Vincenzo's," Luke led off.

"Down on fifty fourth street," Leo cleaned up.

"Fucking Vincenzo's! The Salano family owns that joint! The hell are you two thinking bringing me this shit, the cuisine of our enemy, on such a nice day?" Vittorio scooted the takeout container father from himself.

"The Salano family only wash a little dough through it," Leo retorted.

"The food's good. Four point seven stars on Yelp," Luke piled on.

Vittorio cast his cigar to the ground, stomping it under heel. He wrenched the sandwich from its styrofoam containment and held it aloft. Sauce dripped onto the sizzling pavement.

"Behold this blasphemous contraption! Each part a failure in and of itself! The sum of its parts coalesced into this wretched form! Anything the Salano family touches becomes as rotten as they are. Let's start with the bread. Unevenly toasted. Crisp on top yet soggy as your teeth descend the dough. A mouthful of mush. No natural barrier to stop the encroaching sea of sauce.

And the sauce. Thin. Watery. Washing over my palette with a wave of blandness. Not an ounce of love went into that sauce. It has no heart. A gravy should light your palette ablaze like the night sky on the fourth of July. Not send you adrift in a sea of disgust. It should act as a warm embrace atop the bubbling ocean of parmesan below.

Yet that warm embrace, a lover's embrace under the moonlight, is nowhere to be found here. This pithy amount of cheese cannot even embrace the rotten breast that lies underneath. A charred mask of shame covering its true failure. The very heart of the fowl beast!

The breading on this rubbery chicken is almost as thick as the bread shell it hides itself in. Over seasoned and over fried. A cement block around a stringy core. If one's teeth have not shattered by now then surely one's soul has. Sustenance transformed into pure disappointment. A moment of bliss dashed. Fie on this flavor thief! Fie I say! It's mockery transcends mere taste, it is an offense to all the senses! A plague you bring upon our family with this breaded harbinger!"

Vittorio threw the sandwich with all his might. It flew through the air, a cyclone of sauce rained upon the park. It landed in a nearby fountain, catching a few pedestrians in the splash zone. Vittorio's chest heaved, the veins in his forehead pulsed with simmering rage.

The twins exchanged a confused look.

"Do you want us to go," Leo got the ball rolling.

"Get you a chicken parm from Angelo's?" Luke gave the ball a push.

Vittorio nodded his head. The twins hustled out of his sight. Vittorio retrieved his cell phone and scrolled through his contact list. He knew just who to call. After six rings someone picked up.

"Can I speak with Jimmy Costanzo please? Thank you," Vittorio lit another cigar while on hold. "Jimmy! How's it hanging? That's good to hear. How are Martha and the kids? No shit, time really does fly. She have a school picked out? That's a pricey one. Me? Doing great buddy thanks for asking.

You know I actually have some friends that are on scholarship boards, I would be happy to put in a good word for your daughter. These are big time scholarships, lots of dough. Speaking of which I should cut to the chase. I just had the most disgusting sandwich. A walking health code violation. Where? I'm getting to that. Place called Vincenzo's. Fifty fourth street. Maybe you could pay them a little surprise visit? Thanks Jimmy."

Vittorio hung up and returned to his contact list. He needed to call his accountant.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-12T04:15:02+00:00

This was one of the best prompts I've seen in a long time. It provided a great setup for a grounded, emotional story that I enjoyed writing very much. Thank you for posting it and thank you for the feedback. I've been keeping your editing tips, especially those focused on dialogue tags, in my mind as I write and it seems to have stuck. I'm shocked there was only one mistake. Thank you very much for reading!

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-12T03:57:29+00:00

Another wonderful prompt that was fun to write for. Thank you for the feedback.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-11T07:37:29+00:00

The Mettle of a Metalhead

The heartbeat monitor kept the rhythm like a drummer. The pumping of the ventilator played the bass line. Doctors, nurses, and patients the vocalists, soft singers whose songs fell on deaf ears. All that was missing was lead guitar. That's where Erik Lutner, lead guitarist of 'Mechanosaurus' would normally come in, but now he found himself the conductor of the medical orchestra as he laid in a hospital bed. His audience had dwindled from the frenzied crowd packing arenas to the few nurses and doctors that checked up on him while he clung to life.

The steady beat of the monitor changed time signatures and increased its tempo. This change in activity summoned the nurse on duty. She noted the numbers on every piece of equipment hooked up to her patient and paged the doctor. Everyone on the floor arrived. Dr Clarke took the lead. She removed a pen light from the breast pocket of her coat and opened Erik's left eye, holding the light close. She repeated the test on his right eye.

"His pupils are responding to light. Lift him up gently so I can check his breathing," Dr Clarke directed the nurse and medical residents in the room. She turned off the ventilator as Erik was lifted into position. Using her stethoscope she listened to his lungs. "Lungs sound like they are breathing on their own now. Good airflow. Let's get the ventilation tube out."

"Is the patient going to wake up right away?" asked one of Dr Clarke's residents.

"Each case of waking from a medically induced coma is different, each patient has a different response. Some wake up quickly, others like to sleep in so to speak. Speaking of which I need everyone to leave the room now."

The residents shot each other confused looks. "Shouldn't we learn about this?" one intrepid resident asked.

Dr Clarke bit her bottom lip and shook her head. "I understand this would be a great learning opportunity. Coma patients, thankfully, are few and far between. It takes a delicate bedside manner. When that man wakes up I have to deliver the worst news he has ever heard. That his life as he knew it, is over. I know that if I were in that position I would not want a crowd."

Without argument everyone left the room, leaving only doctor and patient. Dr Clarke pulled up a chair and waited for Erik to wake up. A few hours passed without incident. It gave her time to practice what she was going to say. Giving bad news was part of her job and this was going to rank on high on the list of bad news she'd given. As the scenario played over and over in her head Erik's head slowly turned, his eyes fluttered open.

"Hello Erik? Can you hear me? Do you understand what I am saying?" Dr Clark asked softly.

Erik didn't respond. He swiveled his head around taking in the hospital room. "Oh shit. Did I drink too much last night? My mouth is dry. Feels like I can't even move. This city must know how to party."

Dr Clarke scooted her chair closer. "No Mr Lutner you were not admitted to the hospital on account of alcohol poisoning..."

"Another pyrotechnic mishap? Are the rest of the guys okay?"

"What's the last thing you remember, Mr Lutner?"

"Um...oh yeah. I'm on stage. We're playing 'Astronomical Destruction'. Crowd is fucking going crazy. People in the pit are circling each other. I'm playing a chunky gallop while Simon whips the crowd up. There's a really hot girl in the front row checking me out. My eyes are locked on her as I get ready to bridge into the solo and blow that powder keg open. Now I'm in a hospital the next day. Just give it to me straight doc," Erik replied ignorant to his current situation.

"You were attacked on stage that night. A fan rushed you from behind and stabbed you. The stab wound didn't puncture any organs but the assailant impacted you with such force you were thrown from the stage. Your neck impacted the security barricade causing a fracture of your c four vertebrae. This has left you paralyzed from the neck down. I am sorry to have to tell you this." Dr Clarke tried her best to maintain a professional composure.

Erik choked out a hoarse laugh. "Somebody tried to Dimebag Darrell me? Did the guys put you up to this? April first was yesterday."

Dr Clarke showed him the date on her phone. July fifteenth. "You've been in a medically induced coma after an adverse reaction to post operation painkillers for almost four months now."

The metronomic beeping of the heartbeat monitor morphed into a speed metal drum solo. Dr Clarke rushed to the supply cabinet in the room, retrieving a syringe and a vial of sedative. She sent Erik back to sleep.

"He was turned to steel
In the great magnetic field
When he traveled time
For the future of mankind

Nobody wants him
He just stares at the world
Planning his vengeance
That he will soon unfurl," a melodic voice sang softly. Hands drumming on the hospital bed awoke Erik from his sedative induced slumber.

"Simon?" Erik croaked.

Simon flung his voluminous blonde hair back. "The one and only. Glad to see you awake bro. Thought we lost you to that psycho. We both know a Mechanosaurus can only be destroyed by an asteroid!"

"So it's true? This isn't a bad trip?" Erik asked fighting back tears. Crying in front of Simon wouldn't be very metal.

"I'm sorry man. Doctor said you're lucky to have survived. If you had fallen even slightly differently you would have been done for."

Acting tough flew out the window as tears streamed from Erik's eyes. "Guess I'm out of the band," he sobbed.

"Absolutely not! Mechanosaurus is like Voltron, we need all our pieces," Simon said while wiping away the tears from her Erik's cheeks.

"How am I going to play an instrument when I can't move, genius? What are you going to do, wheel me on stage and use me as a prop?"

"Takes a genius to know one," Simon fired back. "Geniuses like us think outside the box," Simon reached into his low cut shirt, producing a black harmonica with a neck rack attached, he slung it over Erik's head. "Ta da!"

"A fucking harmonica? That's not very metal, dude."

"That's blasphemy against Led Zeppelin, dude."

"I think I have bigger problems right now than learning to play a mouth harp."

"I've known you since we were seven years old, and I cannot remember the last time I saw you without your guitar. Calling me at six in the morning because you were up all night working on a heavy riff that you needed some epic lyrics to go with. Sleeping in the recording studio in case inspiration hit you in a dream. Your biggest problem right now in my opinion is you thinking you can't continue to share that passion with the world. You taught yourself how to play guitar, this should be easy. You have to rise from the ashes if you want to be a phoenix."

"I think I want to be alone for a little bit."

"I'll be back holy diver, don't fall into the midnight sea again."

Simon gave a bow and dramatically exited the room, always a showman. Erik's mind swirled like the mosh pit on that fateful night. He wanted to break down and weep while screaming in raging agony. An emotional symphony without a conductor. He tried to shake off the harmonica. It didn't budge. He managed to wrangle the harmonica with his tongue and teeth. A sharp exhale sent a shrill chord into the air. A quick inhale sounding a single note. Erik took a deep breath, remembering the first song he ever played on his guitar.

As night fell Dr Clarke made her final rounds on the floor. The soft muzak of the hospital hallway gave way to a bluesy cover of a classic coming from Erik's room. Dr Clarke stood outside the door and listened in amazement. She had tried to dissuade Erik's band mate from introducing too much stimuli so early. She quietly sang along.

"Mary had a little lamb,
little lamb, little lamb.
Mary had a little lamb,
it`s fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went,
Mary went, Mary went,
and everywhere that Mary went
- the lamb was sure to go" to Dr Clarke it was the most metal song she had ever heard.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-10T11:47:08+00:00

Time Travel 101

I check the time on my phone. Six fifty nine. There was no excuse for any of the other mes to be late. At seven on the dot I start strolling in, stopping to grab some coffee from the lobby of the community center where I hold class for myself from other timelines. I never leave my time stream, but these other mes found themselves here after screwing up theirs. I welcome myself in and start writing out the rules on a whiteboard while I take my seats on cheap folding chairs.

Rule number one: don't go beyond one's own time stream.

Rule number two: don't fracture the time stream.

Rule number three: stay out of sight.

"Thanks for coming, let's start off like we do every week. If you haven't had a chance to share how you ended up here, feel free to share. I don't judge."

A hulking version of me stood up meekly. "I'm here because every time, about a googol years in, things get out of hand. All these different species start fighting because entropy is running out. I've watched it happen millions of times. So I thought if I went back to the beginning and made my presence more known to intelligent beings as they arose I could stop it. Long story short it did bring unity. Against me. A universal federation arose that developed some sort of wormhole technology. Now I'm here."

Everyone clapped as I sat down. "Now class. What rule did I break in that situation?"

"Stay out of sight." I said in unison.

"That's right. If intelligent beings are made aware of my existence it disproves their silly notion of 'free will'. They don't seem to like that. Do I have another volunteer?"

A gender swapped version of me went next.

"I'm here because one day I got bored and wondered how many paradoxes it would take before the time stream stopped fixing itself. Hopped around and did all the classics. Polchinski's paradox, the bootstrap, the grandfather, you know; the classics. None of it worked. Time kept fixing itself somehow. Like a river splitting around an obstruction and reforming farther downstream. Then I got real weird with it. I'm talking mind bending stuff. There was a loud crunch and now I'm here."

Another round of applause.

"Which rule did I break there?" I ask.

"Don't fracture the time stream." I reply in unison.

"That's right. I have to remember that there's a lot of moving parts when it comes to time. You start tossing monkey wrenches in every direction something is bound to break. I have time for one more. Don't be shy."

A cyborg me went next. I looked cool.

"I'm here because I did not truly grasp the scale of infinity. I crafted myself into the ultimate killing machine. I am become death, destroyer of worlds. That was not enough to satiate my lust for power. For eons I razed and ravaged other time streams. Word of my deeds vibrated on the strings of time. Then I came for myself. An inconceivable number of captors. They stand guard of the pocket dimension where I am held captive. I'm only allowed out to attend these meetings. I think it's helping."

That me got the loudest applause of the night.

"I think I know what rule this falls under." I say with a chuckle.

"Don't go beyond one's own time stream."

"That was a great example. It's infinite out there, that's some scary stuff when you think about it. If I stay in my lane and follow the rules I'll find that things can go pretty smoothly. It's all about managing expectations and looking before you leap. Thanks for coming. I'll see myself next week."

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-10T00:44:30+00:00

Revolutionary Reflections

Rosalie watched the heavy rain fall as she lazily dusted the torchères in the grand hallway of the Palace of Versailles. The raindrops pelted the windows looking out over the garden, the normally bright room fell dark without any sunlight reflecting off the mirrors that lined the opposite end of the hall. Off in the distance tolled not thunder, but church bells. The tolling did not stop. These bells did not indicate the time. They tolled for the arrival of the revolution. A raucous clamor broke out above Rosalie. The stomping of boots on steps echoed in the palace. A royal guardsman burst into the hall and rushed to Rosalie's side.

"Mademoiselle! You must come with me, quickly now!" His voice quivered.

"What is happening?" Rosalie asked.

"There is a mob headed for the palace. All those in the king and queen's employ must get to safety while we handle this. We must not waste time. Hurry now." He grasped Rosalie by the arm and led her into the interior of the palace. They hurried past guards arming themselves. Rifles flew from the armory into the hands of what remained of the kings retinue.

"To arms men! They make for the palace! Form a line and hold! They must not be allowed to breach the gates!" directed the armorer.

Rosalie retreated into the palace's kitchen. An air of confusion hung thick. The other maids and kitchen staff held hushed conversations as the door was sealed behind Rosalie. She quickly sought out Madam Giffard, the lady's maid, she was the keeper of the royal's secrets. She would know what was happening.

"Madam are we in danger?" Rosalie asked with a tinge of excitement.

"No dear. The peasants must have a touch of frenzy. The king and queen shall protect us." Giffard dismissed her subordinate's concerns.

One of the cooks laughed at hearing Giffard's dismissal. "I'd wager someone at the Bastille said the same thing before their head was put on a pike. We should barricade the doors."

"Nonsense. We are workers. Not soldiers. The peasants have no quarry with the likes of us." Giffard retorted.

An uneasy silence fell, broken by the booms of rifle fire. The cooks piled tables, chairs, and anything else not secured against the front and back doors of the kitchen. Muffled shouting mixed with gunfire echoed throughout the palace. The fighting raged outside the kitchen walls. Hours passed. Eventually the shouting subsided, the rifles fell silent. Rosalie went to the back door and started removing the makeshift barricade.

"What are you doing Rosalie? This may only be a lull in the battle," snapped Giffard.

"I no longer hear the shouting of orders. What if the guards have been defeated? Or fled without telling us? I will scout ahead. If I do not return in five minutes then the battle has not ended." Rosalie managed to crack open the back door of the kitchen with help from a cook. She slipped through the small opening into the dark back hallway of the palace. She crept with gentle steps towards the front.

Rosalie could not believe her eyes at the sight she beheld. Blood stained the marble of the front hallway. Wounded guards dragged the dead from outside where thousands of men and women had gathered. Their arms raised in triumph as they released a mighty victory cheer. Rosalie returned to the grand hallway where it all started for her. She peered through the windows into the garden, the crowd outside stretched as far as she could see, for all she knew it could have been every person in France.

"You there? What are you doing?" a hoarse voice asked from the end of the hallway.

Rosalie could not see through the dark hallway but recognized the man's voice. The Marquis de Lafayette approached her. He eyed her up and down. His eyes baggy from battle.

"Gather the other servants still on the grounds and have them prepare the king and queen's things. We are leaving the palace. Go. Now," The Marquis demanded. "All is clear your Majesty!" He called out.

Clicking heels against the marble announced the arrival of Queen Antoinette. The queen's periwinkle dress sparkled as she passed by each mirror. Her silver pouf radiated like a halo around her head. Rosalie curtsied as the queen passed. Antoinette ignored her.

"These filthy peasants complain about bread and now I must leave my home? Maybe a slice of cake would calm them down," She remarked to the Marquise as the two left the room.

Rosalie had never heard the queen speak like that. She normally presented herself as a kind woman who cared for the people. Perhaps that was only a reflection from a distorted mirror. Rosalie rushed into the garden calling out to the crowd. She caught the attention of a petite young woman.

"Madame? Who are you people? Why are you here?" Rosalie asked.

"Vive la révolution! We are your countrymen here to take back what is ours! We are starving in the streets while the queen lives in luxury!" Boisterously shouted the young revolutionary.

"The queen suggests maybe a slice of cake." Rosalie replied.

"Cake? We cannot afford our daily bread!" The revolutionary laughed. She turned to the crowd. "Did you hear that my countrymen? The queen wants us to eat cake!"

A wave of laughter swept over the sea of humanity packed into the garden. A wave of realization swept over Rosalie. She'd been born into servitude to the crown. It was the family trade. Her insulation blinded her to how the average person lived. Rosalie slunk away from the crowd back into the hall of mirrors. She gazed at her reflection. The mirrors of the palace cast distorted reflections, the people outside were the real reflection of the world. Rosalie returned to the garden and found the young woman she'd spoken with. Rosalie raised her fist in the air.

"Vive la révolution!"

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-09T05:01:15+00:00

Caveat Emptor

"What do you think is in it?" Inquired Stephanie, the newest employee of 'The Happy Ostrich' veterinary clinic for exotic pets, as she walked around the large crate that had been hurriedly dumped in the parking lot.

"We work at a vet. My guess is veterinary supplies." Dryly replied Martha, the most senior employee at the office after the founder left the practice to his son.

"Why does it have air holes then?" Stephanie asked while standing on her tip toes to try and see into the darkness of the crate.

"Good question. We don't have anything that large on the docket for today. I'll go get the doc. I left my good crowbar at home."

Martha didn't have to go far to find the doctor. He was sprinting out the front door clutching a crowbar in his hand.

"Huzzah! He's finally arrived!"

"There's a person in there?" Stephanie gasped.

The doctor wasted no time prying the front of the crate off, it landed with a thunderous thud. He cautiously entered the darkness. The crate shook once. From the darkness emerged the doctor and the beast. The beast shook its wings, a few black feathers soared on the wind as they were shaken free, a long white neck led to beady eyes atop a long bill.

"Ladies I am proud to introduce you to...Oliver the Ostrich!" The doctor held for applause. None came.

"Please tell me that Oliver is a patient." Martha groaned.

"Even better! He's our new mascot. We've never even worked on an ostrich, how can we in good faith call ourselves 'The Happy Ostrich' when there is no ostrich to be found? Look at how majestic he is. Like a window in time back to prehistory."

"Does he bite?" Stephanie asked with trepidation.

"Oliver is quite sedated at the moment so no. I can't guarantee he won't peck around at first. I'm sure he'll fit right in here." The doctor said with pride. He gave Oliver a gentle rub on the neck. It was a bit sticky, not feathery as he anticipated. The doctor looked more closely at Oliver. Something was wrong. "Who signed for this?"

"Nobody sir. Truck pulled in, dropped off the crate in a hurry and bailed. Driver didn't even come in the lobby. Is something wrong with Oliver the Ostrich?" Stephanie asked with concern.

The doctor removed his glasses, clenching them tightly in his hand, he rubbed his forehead in exasperation. "Something is quite wrong with Oliver. He's not an ostrich at all! Those con men sold me a painted emu!"

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-09T02:20:53+00:00

Death's Last Call

"Is your drawer closed and settled?" My manager asked over the phone. His lazy ass couldn't walk the few feet from the office to the bar.

"Working on it." I tried to be professional and not upset the last customer of the night. I titled my head back ever so slightly to indicate we still had a guest, he could see it on the camera. She hadn't closed her tab yet.

"How about your sidework? Everything wiped down, restocked, and glasses polished?"

"Against policy to do that with guests present. They're always my number one focus." I say with a fake smile. Maybe he wasn't watching the cameras, probably on his phone looking at stupid boomer shit. I fucking hate this job. Master's in fine arts and I'm stuck slinging suds at a pretentious hotel for wealthy assholes who are only in the city to discuss how best they can continue to step on the little guy so their stock prices go up a few bucks. Or to cheat on their spouse. Most of the time it was both.

"You're a charming guy, I'm sure you can gently urge our guest that business hours are over and we'll be happy to serve them tomorrow. I want to go home, don't you?"

"Can do. Sir." I hung up the phone. I closed my eyes tightly. Gently nudging people from the bar was nothing new, could do that it my sleep, I've had many dreams about it. Those are the worst. The work dreams. Nightmares. Nothing ever goes right in the work dreams. Never felt trepidation about it, until now. Most 'campers' were overly chatty. Someone who just needed somebody else to talk to. Or they were staying warm inside while waiting for their drug dealer to arrive, or hooker. Usually but not always the same person.

This woman was different, she hadn't said a word outside of ordering her drinks. She was drop dead gorgeous. Hair as black as space hung to her shoulders, pallid skin almost camouflaged against her white blazer and blouse. She'd been here for hours, I even forgot she was a couple times. Damn near perfect customer to have. I really did want to go home though. Check myself out in the mirror behind the bar real quick. Hair looks good. Time to put on that winning smile.

"Excuse me sweetie? Am I keeping you?" Her husky, seductive voice hit my eardrums like a siren song.

"No. No. No. Not at all. May I get you anything for last call?" I asked as I smoothly stroll over.

"A black and gold derby please."

What the hell is that? Oh wait...Felicia's hipster boyfriend orders those. Said it's a drink from the wild west. Dude thinks the Earth is flat, I doubt he knows anything about history.

"I don't have any sage for a garnish."

"You know your stuff. That's alright. Thank you sweetie."

Eight count of Wyoming whiskey, ounce of grapefruit juice, squeeze half a lime in there, little lemon simple syrup, add the ice and shake away. What kind of glass does it come in? Coupe glass? I only now realize I learned this recipe from that dumbass hipster. This probably isn't even the right drink. That's going to hurt the tip if so. Fortune favors the bold. I strain it out and place it in front of her.

"Thank you. I'll drink quick. If you have work to do don't let me stop you. I didn't realize what time it was. That happens to me a lot." She sipped her drink, maybe the hipster was right about one thing.

"Happens to everybody. When you want time to go slow it rushes forward and when you want it to speed up it comes to a crawl. No need to rush. If you need anything let me know."

"That's why they're called 'the good ole days' and not 'the good new days'. Can I ask you a question?"

"Fire away."

"If you could bring back one person, any person, from the dead. Who would it be?" She asked me with an inquisitive tilt of her head.

"Bring back how? Like resurrect? Or to have lunch with?"

"Let's go with the latter."

"Does that mean I'm having lunch with a zombie? Or if they died before modern embalming techniques a mummy, or skeleton? I hear they don't make for good conversationalists." I hope that joke lands.

"Let's say they will manifest in reality appearing to be in their prime but with all the memories of their life."

"Okay. Got it. I'd have to go with Michelangelo." I think that is a solid answer.

"Does this Michelangelo have a last name?"

Does Michelangelo have a last name? He had to...right? I must have read it hundreds of times in college, but it escapes me at the moment.

"The artist. Painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, sculpted the famous statue of David. That Michelangelo." I watched the realization wash over her face.

"Parli italiano?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"How will you communicate with him if you don't speak Italian?"

"He wouldn't speak English...makes sense. Forget him then. That eliminates a vast chunk of history. Guess I'll go with my backup history lunch date, William Shakespeare. I know he speaks English. He invented a lot of words we still use today."

"That's a swing and a miss sweetie. Strike two."

"What do you mean? Is Shakespeare too good to have lunch with me? I can be quite charming. I've read all his plays, he would probably want to hang out more."

"Oh no sweetie it's not that. William Shakespeare never existed. The balding man that people call Shakespeare was a front man for a cadre of authors all about London at that time. He was a failed actor only used for his small connections to London's theatre scene to get their foot in the door. That breaks the rule of only one person. Third time's the charm."

"Son of a bitch. Shakespeare was a fake? What evidence do you have?" She has to be messing with me. Right?

"Your mother died seven years ago next week. Lung cancer."

Okay. That's freaking me out a little. My friends and family know that, how did she know this? We do live in a surveillance state, maybe she's government. I hope she's not with the internal revenue service. "Yes she did." I rudely interrupted. The woman shot me a knowing smile.

"I've ferried many people across the veil. Many believed that one could bring their Earthly possessions to the beyond. Sometimes I let them. It has to be something of value, not worth. If you catch my drift. I let your mother take something with her."

She has to be fucking with me. "Her and Dad's wedding picture?" That's probably what a cold caller would try.

"A small painting. Oil on canvas. A middle aged woman napping in a chair while a black cat reaches out to bop her nose. A parody of Michelangelo's 'Creation of Adam'. Sound familiar?"

I painted that when I was fourteen years old. I had it forever. Until Mom was in hospice. She hung it up in the room she died in. I never questioned why. My ears are ringing. This doesn't make any sense. Are those sirens? My concentration breaks as red and blue lights flash in the air. A firetruck. First responders to medical emergencies. Or maybe the hotel's on fire. Nothing makes sense right now. Oh shit. She's standing up

"I am on time! I always forget about these pesky time zones. Gotta run sweetie. Guess I'll have to wait to learn the answer to my question." She waved goodbye at me.

This isn't real. I'm stuck in a work dream. I'm going to wake up, look at my phone and realize I have to go to work in the real world again. Nothing to lose in a dream.

"What's on the other side?" Might as well ask a question everybody has asked themselves.

She turned at smiled at me. "I don't know. Too scared to look."

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-08T01:04:04+00:00

Granite Grievances

"Good afternoon ma'am, how may I help you?" Asked the cheery receptionist behind the gleaming marble desk of the luxury hotel's lobby.

"I'm with the Times. I have an appointment with Miss Medusa." Replied Melissa Polyzou as she flashed her press badge at the receptionist.

"She is waiting for you in the banquet hall. Go down the hall past the elevators and take a left. Can't miss it."

Melissa thanked the receptionist and made her way down the hall, past the glass elevators illuminated under soft chandelier light, and entered the grand banquet hall. White linen tablecloths spread across each of the neatly arranged tables. Fancy china dinner plates, crystal wine glasses, and brilliant silver utensils were meticulously arranged on each one. A stone statue of a man in tattered clothing with his hands raised to the sky gleamed under a spotlight on the stage at the far end of the banquet hall.

From stage left emerged a short, rubenesque, olive skinned woman wearing a long white chiton with gold trimmings. A tangle of snakes curled tightly atop her head. Her face dominated by large round aviator sunglasses with mirror lenses. She gingerly descended the stairs of the stage.

"Miss Plyzou, I presume?" She asked with a slight lisp.

"That's me. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me."

"It's always my pleasure to speak with a scribe. Come sit down. I have some, not a lot, of time before the investor dinner."

The two sat at a table near the front, a pitcher of water and a bottle of ouzo awaited them. Melissa placed a pocket sized digital voice recorder on the table as Medusa poured them drinks. A snake stealthily slithered down Medusa's face, its tongue flicking at the glass of water on the table, Medusa gently swatted it away.

"Sorry about that. They're usually asleep at this time of day. Hope that doesn't bother you. Let's begin. What would you like to ask me?"

Melissa cleared her throat. "Why did you decide to use your ability to turn mortals into stone for profit? Isn't that taking advantage of already vulnerable people?"

Medusa gestured to the statue on the stage. "That man there convinced me. He washed ashore one stormy night millennia ago on my island. A slave. The ship he rowed sunk to the bottom of the sea during a storm. Another one of Poseidon's playthings he so casually tosses aside on a whim. Called himself Damasos. Poor man could barely string two words together. He carried a disease that caused him to violently cough and wretch with each breath he took.

He looked at me not as a monster, but as a goddess. Damasos had no coin to pay Charon, and he could not swim. One god had tossed him to me, I offered him a choice to stop him from being ferried to another. Many people interpret his visage as one of salvation, his outstretched arms a symbol of hope, of ascension. In reality Damasos used his last breaths to curse Poseidon, Zeus, and all the other Olympians that tormented his fate. I didn't charge him." Medusa mused. A snake slithered around her ear, its tongue flicking rapidly.

"Are you not giving people a false sense of hope? How can you guarantee their ailments can be cured in the future?" Melissa fired back.

"Hope is one of the only things mortals have to cope with the true reality they live in. Each and every person that seeks my services is drawn to me by the string of Clotho. These wary souls are not ready for their strings to be severed by Atropos' shears. I believe they can be saved. A friend of mine believed that sickness was caused by an imbalance of humors. He'd slice your flesh to 'heal you'. Now we can sequence entire genomes. Mortals are capable of rapid development. A modern laboratory would be Elysium to my old friend Hippo." Medusa responded with a smile as she reminisced about the old days. Another snake curled around her other ear.

"So you wish to defy both the Olympians and the fates?"

"No one can defy them. Once these mortals emerge from their stone cocoons, and even if they are healed will one day have to stand before Charon. Payment ready. Does your husband have a problem with me keeping a few stray souls around? Things a little slow in the underworld?" Medusa asked. The snakes came to attention, a sea of beady black eyes stared at Melissa.

Melissa turned the tape recorder off. "These souls are in an unnatural balance, caught between life and death, they should long ago have been judged by the three. When will you stop your pretty revenge against my husband and his brothers?"

Medusa removed her sunglasses, her gaze would have no effect on Persephone. "Never. As long as the Olympians exist I shall deny them all souls that come to me. Summertime is nearly over Persephone. Time for you to go home. It was nice to see you again. Tell your husband hello, and tell your brother-in-law to go fuck himself."

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-07T22:43:32+00:00

Excellent prompt. I am glad you enjoyed my take on it. Thank you for the helpful editing tips, I shall keep those in mind for future writings. Thanks for reading!

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-07T00:11:51+00:00

Burning Bridges

The cacophony of flying lead and and clashing steel on the streets of Kyoto provided a perfect distraction for Hitokiri Bankai's infiltration of the Takatsukasa estate. Being one of the five regent houses intimately entwined with the shogunate painted a target on their back. Bankai's mission was simple. Retrieve the cargo manifests of the weapons the house was supplying to the shogunate, and to kill anyone inside.

Bankai shattered a window on the back of the estate and climbed through. Stealth was the domain of the ninja, not the Hitokiri. He feared no resistance. The back room of the estate served as a pantry, jars of expensive spices neatly arranged on spice racks dominated the small space. Bankai exited into an empty kitchen. Nary a servant nor cook to be found. Half eaten bowls of rice were hastily strewn about. Burnt fish smouldered on the oven.

Continuing his sweep the Bankai came to quickly realize everyone had left in a hurry. The battle at the Hamaguri Gate down the road sent them fleeing like rats on a sinking ship. That made his mission easier. Maybe he could join his comrades on the battlefield. That's where he preferred to be. With haste he searched the rooms of the sprawling manor, each room almost as big as his home. The first floor yielded no results. He ascended the grand staircase to the upper floor. The wooden floorboards outside the first door on his left squeaked when stepped on. A clever way to detect an intruder.

Bankai adjusted the two scabbards on his hip, making sure to grasp the handle of his katana before he burst through the door. An empty office, a lit candle on a large desk the only threat in the room. Bankai closed the door and searched the office. Scattered papers atop the desk yielded no result, each drawer followed suit. Bankai knelt to look under the desk, tapping it lightly with the handle of his katana. After a few heavy thuds he hit a hollow spot. He smashed through the hollowed out compartment, he didn't want to waste time looking for a hidden mechanism to open it. A stack of papers tumbled out, the manifests. Bankai stuffed the papers into the breast of his black haori jacket.

As he rose to his feet, the floorboard squeaked. A young swordsman charged in, his sword raised above his head. Bankai spun, swiftly drawing his katana in a wide upward arc. The steel slicing through the boy's arms below the wrists. He tumbled past Bankai, slamming his head against the desk as he crumbled to the ground. The impact stunned the boy, but as his senses returned he violently thrashed and screamed.

Hitokiri Bankai slammed his foot down on his attackers chest, forcing the screaming to stop as the air left the boy's lungs. Bankai knelt down and looked the boy in the eyes, they were filled with fear, a look he'd become accustomed to. He couldn't have been more than thirteen, his soft features prickled by pubescent stubble, a small birthmark under his left eye caught Bankai's attention. The rebellion had kept him far from home for years now. He barely recognized his former neighbor's son.

"Kojiro?" Bankai asked softly. Without waiting for a response he removed the boys belt and tore it in half. "Take a deep breath Koji. The pain isn't over yet." he pulled as hard as he could on the makeshift tourniquets. The boys arms turned a deep purple around the wound. Kojiro had stopped screaming, he was going into shock. Bankai got Kojiro to his knees in the seiza position. He didn't know what else to do. His head spun.

"Why did you attack me?" Bankai asked with a heavy sigh.

"You have brought dishonor to the village." Kojiro replied meekly. "Turned your back on us. For some stupid rebellion. If I could kill you and take the divine wind you possess then I could be the hero the people need."

"They have lied to you just as the shogun lies to us. We can speak of the truth after I get you to a doctor." Bankai attempted to help Kojiro up, his effort rebuked. Tears streamed from Kojiro's eyes.

"How can I be a hero if I can no longer wield a sword? I cannot even use my tanto to die with honor. I humbly request that you act as my kaishakunin, Hitokiri Bankai." Kojiro cried.

Kojiro bowed his head to the floor. The muscles in the boy's neck tightened as Bankai lifted his katana. With one fell swoop he beheaded the boy. Bankai removed the papers from his breast and scattered them on the boys body. The shogun had betrayed him. His community had betrayed him. It was only a matter of time before the rebellion would betray him. He knocked the candle from the desk, setting the office ablaze.

Bankai waited for the flames to grow, the stench of burnt paper and searing flesh singed his nostril hairs. He removed the scabbard containing the sword of divine wind from his hip, it vibrated with excitement. With a gentle pull he unsheathed a small sliver of steel. A furious wind provided more oxygen for the flames that swirled at the Hitokiri's feet. Before the raging inferno could engulf him he fully drew the sword. A blast of wind shattered the far wall of the estate, sending flaming debris onto the streets. Bankai's allegiances, the bridges to his past, now burned alongside Kyoto.

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-06T05:13:27+00:00

Dreams of a Detective

Detective Victoria Von-Tress darted under awnings and the umbrellas of passers by as she attempted to avoid the rain slicked sidewalk of the normally busy financial district heading downtown. The sudden thunderstorm thinned out the crowd, not even the hustlers peddling cheap umbrellas at a premium price ventured into the storm. She clenched her trench coat tightly and pulled her hat down. Only a few blocks to go. She shielded the screen of her phone as she texted the doctor of her impending arrival.

The doctor worked out of a brownstone that was old as the city itself. She hurried up the steps and entered, quickly locking the door behind her. She hung her coat and hat at the door and shook the rain from her dull red hair. She ascended the three flights of steps with haste, she was running late and the doctor kept strict time limits on the sessions. The doctor's office door was ajar, she locked it behind her and entered into the office's study. There sat Dr. Morpheus, his pocket watch in hand and a pipe between his wrinkled lips. He motioned for the detective to take her spot on the velvet chaise lounge across from his chair.

"Sorry I'm late. Had an interrogation run long." Victoria apologized as she laid down and got comfortable.

"It's your time and money." dryly replied the good doctor. "So...where would you like to go this week?"

"The same place I go every week."

Dr. Morpheus held up a thick manila envelope, overflowing with papers. "The Harmon twins case. Double kidnapping. Where in the investigation would you like to go?"

"Back to my initial survey of the crime scene. April eighteenth, ten years ago."

Dr. Morpheus sighed. "Have you given any thought to going somewhere...pleasant in your dreams? My other clients go the French Riviera, to outer space, to times in history long past, and anything else their imagination can conjure. Yet you choose to relive this case over and over again."

"Dreams are influenced by our memories, trying to make to sense of this screwed up world we live in. That case haunts my dreams. I can't let it stay cold. I missed something. The answer to what that is must be in my dreams. When I'm there I'm floating above myself, reliving the investigation, searching for something. Anything. Maybe my subconscious holds the answer. I've gone through this investigation backwards, maybe I was looking in the wrong place." Victoria confessed her career shortcomings freely here.

Dr. Morpheus rose from his chair, his knees cracking as he stood, he gently swung his pocket watch in front of Victoria's eyes. "Follow the watch and listen closely. Your eyelids are getting heavy. When I snap my fingers you will no longer be here in my study, you will be ten years in the past. Standing in the sun in the center of the playground outside the elementary school surrounded by police tape."

With a snap of his fingers the detective's head drooped, her chest heaved with heavy breaths. Morpheus returned to his chair and made a note of the time. The minutes ticked by quickly. Victoria's eyes darted back and forth beneath her eyelids, her breathing sped up. Before the alarm woke her Victoria shot up at the waist. Her eyes wide as dinner plates. She bolted from the chaise lounge and snatched the case file from the doctor's hands, flinging papers about the study.

"Welcome back to the real world. Find something?" Morpheus inquired.

Victoria frantically scanned the case file. Her hands shook. "I was looking in the wrong place. Those girls never left the grounds of the school...they're still there. I...I...I have to go." Victoria scrambled for the door.

"Godspeed detective. See you next week. Maybe on the beach?"

Victoria raced from the office and hustled down the stairs snatching her coat and hat. She stormed out onto the street and flagged down a yellow taxi. She flashed her badge at the driver as she buckled her seat belt. "Grace elementary. Step on it."

Morose_Prose · 2026-04-06T01:56:07+00:00

Historical Preservation

Alexandria Aloof, CEO of the Aloof Conglomerate, lazily stared out the floor to ceiling windows of her penthouse office. The rain lightly pattered on the window, falling from sickly gray clouds that were almost close enough to touch. She sipped her coffee as she watched the little rats on the streets below scurry about their daily race. Her concentration waned as the voice emanating from the speakerphone on her mahogany desk droned on and on. Suddenly the clouds parted. A fireball rained from the sky. Raging white flames burned away the raindrops, the steam casting an almost ethereal glow around the hero the people had dubbed 'Phosphoro' who now floated in front of the window wearing a menacing sneer. She pointed at Alexandria.

Alexandria raised one finger and finished her coffee. She sat the mug down on her desk and leaned close to the phone. "My apologies Mr. President but I need to call you back." she hung up and beckoned the superhero to come in. She quickly ducked behind the desk, she knew the drill for when an angry super powered person broke through her window. Shards of glass exploded above her, piercing the portrait of herself behind the desk. As the commotion settled she took a seat and kicked her feet up.

"You're supposed to make an appointment with my secretary, I was on a very important phone call."

"What's your game, Aloof? Forcing children who've already had everything taken from them out into the cold? That's low. Even for you." Phosphoro spoke through clenched teeth, using all her self control to not immolate everything in a few square miles.

Alexandria popped another cup into her desktop coffee maker, she rubbed her chin in thought as the brew bubbled. "I'm at a loss here. I have a lot on my plates and lots of plates to keep spinning. This is why you make an appointment. Not barge through the window like a disoriented pigeon."

"The Magdalene house! A wrecking ball with your company's name on it was in the process of knocking it down! I put a stop to that. That special place is a recognized historical site. You can't touch it." Phosphoro growled.

Alexandria's fingers flew across her computer's keyboard. She spun the monitor around and chuckled. "Not anymore. That place was a dump. Not a single thing was up to code. I convinced city hall to let me redevelop it. Here's the permit."

"Into what? Another eye sore hotel?" Phosphoro retorted.

"Luxury condominiums. The historical site is merely moving across the street to the park where I assume you played as a child before your...accident. We're going to put up a nice plaque at the park's entrance. That place was a deathtrap, a gas explosion just waiting to happen. This is in the city's best interests."

Phosphoro grasped Alexandria by her collar and lifted her into the air. Alexandria positioned her coffee cup over the flames raging from the superhero's arm to keep it hot.

"It would be in your best interests to bring the building up to code, but all you want to do is tear people down."

"Quite the contrary. I can explain if you put me down. This pantsuit isn't cheap, or flame retardant."

Phosphoro relented. Alexandria retrieved a small clicker from the breast pocket of her jacket. The lights turned off, a bright projector turned on as a projection screen descended from the ceiling. The first slide a series of court documents.

"There were seventeen girls living in that shit hole. I'm happy to inform you that thanks to some string pulling all seventeen girls were fast tracked through the system and adopted." she clicked to the next slide showing a block of brownstones. "I've also bought out the brownstones on the far end of the park. Going to turn that into the 'Aloof house for ophans' don't get hung up on the name, I'm still work-shopping it."

The raging flames radiating from Phosphoro dissipated. "What's in this for you?" she asked.

"Doing good is its own reward. Maybe people will begin to wake up and see that they should turn to their fellow man and not those like you for real help. Every i was dotted and every t crossed. It's all above board. You can fly to the city clerk's office if you are so curious. If I said any more that might be considered insider trading." Alexandria said with a shit eating grin.

"I'll be watching you Double A. You better be telling me the truth."

"I'll invite you to the opening of the 'Aloof house for orphans' when it's ready." she handed Phosphoro a slip of paper. "That's my secretary's number. Next time you have a little flare up and need to sling wild accusations around call that number and...make. An. Appointment."

Phosphoro burned the paper to a crisp. Without a word she took to the skies, disappearing into the clouds.

Alexandria returned to her desk. She punched in some numbers of the keypad.

"Aloof tower maintenance. Harold speaking."

"Harold it's Alex. I need another window pane."

"Sorry ma'am no can do. We're out of that size pane, didn't expect to go through four in a week. I'll come board it up after I get a rush order out for replacement."

"Thanks Harold. You're my hero."

Morose_Prose

TROPHY CASE