bo0ple

[bo0ple]

An Audience of One

Long after the witches had left their cabin, when moss had filled every cranny and critters found residence in every corner, nestled a raven. The window that peered into the little room had become hazy with age, giving a gentle glow to the crumbling papers and typewriter that had become the raven's home away from home. Its midnight feathers rose and fell in a nest of crumpled drafts and stories that would never make it past the rotted out door. The ink that once put thoughts to sheets was long dried up and useless, but made for the raven a mellow aroma that infused the room with a sense of safety. Solitude and stagnance had weathered down the bookshelves and desk, with their paint curling off the wood that had lost its finish, still housing leather bound volumes that were losing their structure. 

To the little raven, this dwelling that had stood here since before its parents were hatched, with its moss and dust and critters and cracks, was everything it could ever want. Trinkets hidden in drawers and boxes provided endless amusement. From a stick that sparked to bottles that always bubbled, from shriveled small frogs to a great big cozy chair, it had all it could dream of and more. The most confusing of the bunch was the typewriter, about the same size as the raven with no obvious function, save making the most entertaining clacking it had ever heard. Despite the confusion it created, the raven knew in its little heart that this was its favorite trinket, because it knew that somehow that the typewriter had made the papers it now slept in. It was from this nest of stories that gave the raven its reason for coming back, dreams.

It was within the mind of this drowsing little raven where stories and ideas finally got their audience. Long after the witches had left their cabin, when moss had filled every cranny and critters found residence in every corner nestled a raven, dreaming the dreams of an author long passed.

The Prompt this time around was 'Ravens and Writing Desks' with the challenge of not having it relate to Edgar Allen Poe. I just vibed my way through this story without thinking about so, yes, there are some flaws but I do hope you enjoy the read and have a lovely day!

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #short story #writing prompt #positivity #cabin #raven #witches

[bo0ple]

The Death of a Demon

Unpracticed mantras fell from fresh lips and floated around runes carved too rough paired with candles burning too bright. With the rediscovery of magic in the 55th century came a new interest in old texts that were somehow not dust. What was once thought to be pure fiction was now viewed as potential history, and while some historians were debating the reality of Harry Potter, Adam and his research group dissected papers and ink containing demons.

As Adam uttered the manta for the third time, smoke from the candles curled from each corner of the room  into the center. The runes sparked to light as their shadows peeled off the wall and swirled into the smoke, now slithering into a pool on the ground. From that pool came what was expected, in a form that was not. 

A Demon, old and frail, gently rose from the pool into the sterile testing room. It spoke after a humble bow.

“And what is it you seek, fresh Warlock?”

“I am a scientist, not a warlock.” Adam spoke with the same sterility that afflicted the room they resided. Without raising its head the demon continued.

“A man can have more than one title, and I only answer to Warlocks, Adam.”

“H-how di… You can read minds?”

“Indeed, however it’s not needed when your name is on your chest.”

“You… do have a point.”

“In fact I have many, Warlock.” The old demon’s laugh was soft, nostalgic even.

“Well we can begin studies I assume.” Adam stated as the laughter naturally ran its course.

“So it’s knowledge you seek?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Warlock, that is something I can provide in excess. Although if you intend to wield demonic magic as your people once did, I’m afraid that is impossible.” Its words were genuine and solemn. 

Scrambling to activate his notepad Adam asked “Would you care to explain?”

“Did you know there are only two ways out of hell?”

“Um-”

“One is to be summoned, by Warlocks like yourself. Nearly 5000 years of isolation drove the immortal to discover option Two.”

“And what might that be?”

So the Prompt for this one was Runes, Rites and Rituals. Immediately I thought of a scene where some random fucker summoned the last living demon and they had a chat. I eventually developed a LOT of lore that didn't make the cut of 350 or less words (what's above is at the limit) so i focused just on the initial interaction, but I made it more purposeful by the time period bring WAY in the future in the rediscovery of magic, as I assume is evident

I hope you enjoyed the story and have a great rest of your day!

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #short story #writing prompt

[bo0ple]

Quick update! I have been busy being a writer/storyborarder on my friends webcomic project, will be back later, stay frosty folks

[bo0ple]

Sister of the Giantkiller (revised)

“Hello?”

Jill's voice was swallowed in the dark of the now opened room. She was looking for Jack, her brother who hadn’t contacted her for months. The air that poured out through the door was stale and warm, and it stuck to her arm as she reached around the frame to flick on the lights.

A dim light fell from two of the three bulbs in the ceiling fan. Papers and takeout almost comically cluttered his desk, with a number of pens having rolled onto the floor. A composition notebook was spread open on the floor, filled from top to bottom in Jack’s chicken scratch writing. His old Bookcase was now crammed with quite a few of those roughly handled notebooks to the point where it seemed ready to pop. The bed looked a lot neater than Jill expected from her brother. Walking towards it she felt one of her steps get caught on the floor, and as she looked down she saw that the wood floors were well worm from something being dragged across its surface. Alongside the wear and tear seemed to be claw marks hastily gifted to the ground.

After an ample analysis of the damage and the state of his scattered laundry, Jill looked to the closet. It looked as though the floor and laundry baskets were busy accommodating his wardrobe, so she wondered what could possibly be in there. As the door was pushed open, she was met with the head of a Giant in a jar. Jill knew about the giant that Jack had murdered, but not the other stuffed and preserved heads that were stockpiled here. She recognized the faces of some, and didn’t know the species of others. 

It was much more than she expected, stumbling backwards Jill again tripped on the chewed up floor. As she hit the floor her head turned to the underside of the bed, where she saw the dried up corpse of something inhuman in a wrought iron cage. Its dying moments now forever futile in the stale room, its desperate clawing for freedom only preserved by the splinters in its long dead fingers.

Jill just felt sick.

SO! this is the revised version after a discussion on stream with people, tried to write out some confusion and order things in a way that answers don't show up before the questions, if any of y'all want specifics than I'll be happy to reply but for now, I'd love to know which version you liked better and hope y'all enjoyed the read! have a good day!

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #short story #writing prompt #horror

[bo0ple]

Sister of the Giant Killer

“Hello?”

Jill's voice was swallowed in the dark of the now opened room. She was looking for Jack, her brother who hadn’t contacted her for months. The air that poured out through the door was stale and warm, and it stuck to her arm as she reached around the frame to flick on the lights.

A dim light fell from two of the three bulbs in the ceiling fan. Papers and takeout almost comically cluttered his desk, with a number of pens having rolled onto the floor. His old bookcase was now crammed with more than it was built for, with quite a few roughly handled composition notebooks filled with his chicken-scratch of handwriting. The bed looked a lot neater than Jill expected from her brother. Walking towards it she felt one of her steps get caught on the floor, and as she looked down she saw that the wood floors were gashed and scraped. It looked like the planks had become familiar with a cage being dragged over them, while whatever was inside seemed like it very much did not want to be there.

After an ample analysis of the damage, Jill traversed the room to the closet. At first glance from the laundry baskets and scattered clothes on the floor one would think the closet served no purpose, but as the door was pushed to the side the head of the Giant that Jack killed years back could be found in a jar. Jill knew about the giant, but not the other stuffed and mounted heads that were stockpiled here. She recognized the faces of some, and didn’t know the species of others. 

It was much more than she expected, stumbling backwards Jill again tripped on the chewed up floor. As she hit the floor her head turned to the underside of the bed, where she saw the dried up corpse of something inhuman. Its dying moments now forever futile in the stale room, its desperate clawing for freedom only preserved by the splinters in its long dead fingers.

Jill just felt sick.

Howdy again! I've discovered I can change the font so this'll now be how I (Me [the Author]) talk to y'all. I'm gonna write a revised version of this story and post it here later, I'd love to see what y'all think of both, but first and foremost if you read this story, I hope you enjoyed it and thank you for your time! I'll explain my thought process behind what I'll change in the other post

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #short story #writing prompt #horror

[bo0ple]

If I ever miss a week or the people I get my prompts from skip a week I have like 27 more of these saved up so, at least you guys will get a story a week! anywho off to write this weeks

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #update

[bo0ple]

143 ft.

A new personal best.

Still average among the rest.

Even with the compression sleeve, my elbow still stung like it had been stabbed. I could still feel the sweat and dirt that had accumulated from warming up before the track meet. My shoes were still tight, spikes firmly in the ground, and I think I stood in the throwing lane a bit too long. But that was it, with that last javelin goes my senior season.

Despite the light clapping and congratulations from my coach, I still felt mostly pain and disappointment. The stinging in my arm really only served as a reminder to what could have been, If only I’d been better. Memories of my coaches and my father rung in my head, praising how precise my throwing technique was, saying I was so close again and again to being one of the best in the state, saying I’d throw 170 ft., practically promising it. 

And I know it wasn’t their fault, but I felt like I owed them all that success. What could have been if I had practiced longer, worked out more, taken more time and poured it into this sport that had been growing a bitter taste. I felt like I owed my potential greatness to their hope in me. But at the end of it all, sitting on the grass watching my peers throw 30 ft. more, I felt like I had failed. My coach was proud. My father was proud. I smiled along, noticing how my arm hurt

To this day that pain still flares up and I get brought back to what could have been. Sometimes I still feel disappointment in myself, breaking promises that no one asked for, failing to meet the expectations of what I could have been. But sometimes, more recently thankfully, I use that twinge in my arm as inspiration, to not let myself wonder what could be and simply do it.

The Prompt was Haunted by the Living! I tried to put to words the feeling of owing who you could be to those who saw your potential, which in itself may not be the best way to word it but... eh. Hope y'all enjoy!

#short story #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writing prompt

[bo0ple]

So I have no clue what to do between my weekly stories... But I wanna do something so I'll figure it out

#maybe I'll talk about the book I just started writing #idk #who knows anything really

[bo0ple]

Strawberry

Something stirred Greg from his less than ideal slumber. He didn’t know if it was a noise or a nudge, but he did know that his eyes were crusty and he forgot to shower the day before. As he flopped off his couch he felt what he Incorrectly thought was blood roll from his nose and wiped it away.

Through the sleepy delirium and excessive dark Greg stumbled his way to the kitchen to sate his hunger. After tripping over something soft on the way, he flung open the refrigerator door and was greeted by a divine light. At this point his dog would usually come rushing to his side full of energy and fail to sit still waiting for a treat. But not tonight. There was no pitter of paws, nor any hardly suppressed yelps of excitement. 

Just the dark.

And some strawberries.

Greg expected to feel more awake by now, but if anything he was more tired than when he got up. And he swore there were other things in the fridge, but he was too exhausted to care, and besides, he loved strawberries. Groggily he gathered the things needed to prepare the delicacy that was quartered strawberries in a bowl and got cutting. When he picked up the first one it felt like nothing was there, unfortunately he trusted his eyes. After all, who wouldn’t. With little further consideration he followed his ever so hungry gut and got to chopping.

*snkt*

*snkt*

It almost felt like something was breathing behind him.

*snkt*

*snkt*

Gods he was excited to eat the meal he was preparing.

*snkt*

*crunch*

Greg thought that he’d be done cutting by now, but after looking it almost looks like he hadn’t cut any strawberries.

*snkt*

*crunch*

For some reason there was a dull pain crawling up his arm, but he just kept cutting.

*crunch*

*crunch*

Greg felt lightheaded now. He just wanted to lie down and sleep. He turned to his left arm and saw only a face not even nightmares could conjure.

AND FINALLY FOR TODAY, This story from a year ago. The prompt was "Something Wicked This Way Comes" and it was my first attempt at writing anything horror adjacent. Hope y'all enjoy!

#writing prompt #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #short story #horror

[bo0ple]

Guard Dog

Jack could almost see why they were called werewolves. His friend's face had been stretched against its will to make room for an unnatural amount of pointed teeth. Their skeleton had exploded in length, with the musculature stretched out desperately clinging on to each tendon. As the morning sun poured its golden light onto the thickly forested scene, Jack saw that no fur had sprouted from his friend's body, though he could see how people mistook the shreds of skin that remained as such in the dark. 

Admittedly he was disappointed.

He wanted a monster, a beast he could order around on a leash to get what he wanted. But now all he had was less money and one less friend. He had more of each in spades but he hated being wasteful.

The pool of blood that had oozed out of the warped and skinless corpse was cold by now, but still held a beautiful shade in the waking sun. Framed by the body once curled up in pain, Jack took the time to use this new mirror to tidy up his hair before going back to the van to get gasoline.

He was excited too, hearing all these fantasies of wolfmen tearing through scared hunters in terrific and bloody fashion. He was even thinking of what color of collar he’d get the thing. But as Jack emptied the tank those fantasies disappeared, Jack had responsibilities after all, people to extort, to kill, to scare. He did love the theatrics that came with his position as “the new boss”. 

He struck up a cigar with his boss's old lighter, wiping away an old red smudge he hadn’t noticed before. He took a drag as he sat on the hood of his car, the low sun now illuminating the leaves of the canopy. As shadows danced through his smoke puff Jack flicked the cigar towards the gas drench body. He drove off with the roar of the fire behind him and the roar of his engine ahead, thinking about what monster he’d try to get next.

ANOTHER WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT! who'da thunk. This one was "The Monsters of Your Stories". Hope you enjoyed!

#writing prompt #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #short story

[bo0ple]

Pressure Cooker

Elaine could almost hear the barren trees around her cracking through the roar of the wind. What little skin that was bare quickly became familiar with the bite of the cold, and although she could barely see she marched forward through the blinding white. 

“LYLA! LYLA I’M SORRY!”

Her voice was ripped away by the snow. Her feet seemed to sink deeper with every step, weighed down by guilt. Elaine did not want the last conversation she had with Lyla to be one of anger. Yes she was pissed that her daughter stayed out too late but she just wanted to keep Lyla safe.

“LYLA WHERE ARE YOU?”

Sure, she had disagreements from time to time, but Elaine just wanted to raise her right. She had to make sure Lyla wasn’t off doing something stupid with those twits she called friends. Lyla was better than them, and It was Elaine's responsibility to help her realize that, to help her realize that her mother was right.

“LYLA GET BACK HOME THIS INSTANT!”

Elaine knew she was right. It was those hooligans that made Lyla so distant, it was them that made her so cold, and it was their fault that Lyla stormed out of the house after their latest shouting match. She just wanted to spend what little time she had left with her daughter before she left to live her own life. She didn’t wanna lose her daughter.

But she did. Before this storm, before those ‘hooligans’ of friends even. Lyla had wanted to be free of her mother for quite some time now. It’s a shame though, Elaine was right about one thing. The heart that now rests in the frozen corpse of her daughter was indeed ice cold.

This was a weekly writing prompt from a WHILE back that I remember being proud of, the prompt was "Heart of Ice." Hope y'all enjoy!

#writing prompt #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing #short story

[bo0ple]

To Enjoy The Job

“This seems boring.” As the words left my mouth, I saw William’s excited mood drop like lead.

“...Boring? Jesse,” He said my name like he was disappointed, “We were hired to plan out a genocide. To which the client specified ‘EFFICIENCY. IS. A TOP. PRIORITY.’ and I thought-”

“No don't get me wrong man this-” I slapped the stack of papers I was holding with the back of my hand, “- is far and away the most efficient way to do this. But-”

“It’s not personal enough,” Will interrupted me in the same fashion that I had done to him, a smile of satisfaction peeking through his composure, “That’s what you were going to say.”

“GOSH, it’s almost like we’ve worked with each other a LOT.” I accentuated my faux surprise by burying my chin into my palm with a pout. Will snorted out a short laugh.

“So,” he then continued “Can I submit this efficient albeit boring plan?”

“Oh absolutely not, it reeks of your handy work. I need to do something…” my sentence drifted off as I naturally started daydreaming about how we could really make this genocide something special. Will sat and admired how I looked as the gears turned and thoughts were collected, an admiration that was interrupted by my returning to the moment.

“...fun. Hey Will, how many times has a town ACTUALLY been painted red?” 

I didn’t move as I said this, but with my eyes still locked on to the horizon I could see intrigue and revulsion creep across his face with a smile.

“I do hope you don’t mean to waste time with the dying, having them run around bleeding to death.”

“Goodness no! I’m not a sadist, I'm an artist. YOU kill the lot as you wish, and I keep the least squeamish around to turn people into paint.”

“Jesse, you are horrendous.”

I turned to face him, a wonderful mix of disgust, admiration and excitement could be found across his face.

“And you, my good sir, are my favorite enabler.” I met his smile with my own.

A weekly writing prompt from like 3 weeks ago, It was "My Little Warcrime." hope you enjoy!

#writeblr #writing #writers on tumblr #writing prompt #short story