Superpowers
03 Jan 2022Today’s prompt: “You are a superhero. What powers do you have, and how do you use them?”
Isn’t it obvious by now? My superpower is that I know how everyone dies. And I tell them.
Froot Loops. It’s Froot Loops.
Today’s prompt: “You are a superhero. What powers do you have, and how do you use them?”
Isn’t it obvious by now? My superpower is that I know how everyone dies. And I tell them.
Froot Loops. It’s Froot Loops.
Today’s prompt: “Write from the point of view of a person who has synesthesia (a condition in which one type of sensory stimulation evokes a different sense, as when hearing a sound produces the visualization of a color).”
The first time Claudia realized that not everyone tastes certain words and sounds the way she does was after church one day when she was a little girl. When the service was done, she asked her mother why they always sang the chalky song. When her mom asked what she meant, she said, “You know. The one where they say ‘wretch.’” As baffling as it was for her mother to learn that the word “wretch” tasted like chalk to her daughter, it was just as baffling for Claudia to realize that she was the only one she knew who lived in a world where “merry” has the faint tang of boiled carrots, and “dachsund” tastes like split pea soup. Doctors diagnosed her with lexical-gustatory synesthesia, which was when she learned that “synesthesia” tastes like Swiss cheese.
Claudia really wishes you would stop making that horrible death rattle. It tastes like day-old coffee.
Today’s prompt: “Begin with ‘It didn’t seem like much at the time…’”
It didn’t seem like much at the time, at least not to the FDA, which allows 10 whole insects in eight ounces of golden raisins, 450 insect parts in a 16-oz. box of spaghetti, and 20 maggots in a 4-oz. can of mushrooms. But try telling that to the giant cockroach who has showed up at your door with murder in her eyes, furious at you for eating bits of her children in that PB&J you had for lunch.
Today’s prompt: “I have never felt this way before or since…”
The wizard casts his spell, and you experience a feeling you have never felt before and never will again. Your blood begins to vaporize. It’s a strange feeling, all the molecules of your blood colliding with each other at a much faster rate than they ever have before, expanding and expanding. In moments, your capillaries will be unable to contain it, and you will die as your gaseous blood bursts from your body. But for now, you feel strangely giddy. Bubbly. A little fizzy.
Today’s prompt: “The first summer you fell in love” [I’m ignoring the time of year since I think it makes more sense for the story I want to tell.]
The boy transferred to your school after the first frost last fall. At Miss Mayweather’s School for Survivalists, nicknamed Death Trap High by all the students who go there, there’s no scene where a student transferring to a new school is introduced to their class. Those scenes in popular fiction baffle you. Introducing a new student would actually be contrary to your Snare Detection 101 teacher Ms. Runyon’s whole ethos. On the first day of class, she gave a speech. “Class,” she said, “I will not forbid you from getting to know your classmates. I will not forbid you from seeking out companionship among your peers. Just be advised that if you do so, it’s a little like naming a pig. You and your classmates are all grist for the mill, fodder for the cannons. You may survive. Not everyone in this room will.”
Humans are creatures of habit, so you and your fellow students tended to sit in the same chairs each day. Humans are social creatures, so you made, if not friends, at least acquaintances, despite Ms. Runyon’s admonition. The guy who normally sits to your right is named Jael. You started getting to know him when you became lab partners and started studying together. But you became friends because of his ridiculous impression of what Richard Graves, your textbook author, must sound like. “I’m a pretty big deal,” he would say, dropping his voice a register. “I have like, two snares named after me. Maybe you’ve heard of them? The Graves’ Bait Stick Snare? The Graves’ Motion Triggered Snare? I’m pretty much a genius of traps. That’s why I name all my traps after myself.”
Of course, Jael has been out for a few days with a fractured tibia. Jael was always kind of shit at spotting pit traps. So the seat next to you was open when the new boy joined your class. You noticed someone sliding into the seat and you looked up, expecting to see Jael on crutches, and instead, there was this perfect boy with sandy blond hair and cheekbones like they’d been sharpened with Survival Gear teacher Mr. Wedderley’s prize whetstone. He was tall and slim, with a runner’s build and a mouth that quirked up into a little smile that made you want to die.
He must have noticed you staring at him gobsmacked, because he turned to you. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Cairn. What’s your name?”
You stammered through your name so badly he must think you have a speech impediment.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, and then faced forward as Ms. Runyon launched into the day’s lecture, which you barely heard a word of.
For the next several days, you could barely tear your eyes away from Cairn. Which proved to be a problem in Ms. Runyon’s Snare Detection Lab that Thursday. Basically, you and your lab partner pair up and walk through a patch of woods that Ms. Runyon has filled with booby traps, while she follows several paces behind. If you detect and disarm five snares, you pass the lab and get to leave the woods. If you accidentally trigger a trap, you fail, and you have to stay in the trap while your lab partner goes on without you. If you’re lucky and you’re still alive when they come back for you, Ms. Runyon will let you out of the trap and give you your F. Anyway, if you hadn’t been distracted by Cairn’s ice-blue eyes and magnificent cheekbones, you probably would have noticed that deadfall. You’re not one of the lucky ones who just gets an F.
Today’s prompt: “Write a message in a bottle. Write about the person who finds it.”
You’ve been stranded on the island with nothing to eat or drink for two days when a sealed bottle washes up on shore. You uncork it and unroll the message inside.
“Ahoy mateys! If you find this, you are likely nearby The Most Excellent Party Boat! We are anchored in a small unnamed archipelago of barren and lifeless islands in the Pacific (see enclosed map). The captain of this delightful vessel, feeling generous and whimsical, hereby invites you aboard our craft for food, libations, and righteous partying!
“Party hardy!
“Sincerely,
“Captain Marsha Pendergrast
“The Most Excellent Party Boat”
You scan the hand-drawn map and compare it to the one left from the wreckage of your plane. Holy shit. It does seem to be near here. Not swimming distance, and you wouldn’t trust your strength to those currents anyway. But if you build a raft, you might be able to get to it. You’ve never bothered going to another island since you knew these islands were uninhabited and you could tell from the air that none of them had any major resources. But shit, if there’s a party boat out there…. They could rescue you. You could get some water, a hot meal, a change of clothes, a ride home.
How long ago did they throw this bottle into the ocean? you wonder. Just how long has this party been going on? They’re probably long gone. Still, a chance is a chance. You lash together buoyant pieces of your aircraft, fashion yourself a paddle, and head toward X.
You paddle all day and all night, and in the gray light of dawn you see a ship rising out of the mist. You redouble your efforts, eagerly churning your oar through the waters.
Up close, you can see the ship’s sails are tattered. It looks like a ghost ship, like something that’s been here for centuries. And yet, there on the stern, you see the words, “The Most Excellent Party Boat.”
You try shouting. No one answers. You paddle around the boat. Unaccountably, a rope ladder extends down the starboard side. You haul yourself up.
The entire ship is full of skeletons holding long-rotted canapes and long-evaporated cocktail glasses. There is no food. No water. And no hope of getting to civilization before you die of thirst, or whatever killed these partygoers.
Today’s prompt: “A kid throws a rock over a cliff, and it hits a man in the head. The kid hears screams and goes down to find the man’s hiking partner, who reveals that the man is dead. Write the conversation between the two.” [As always, feel free to ignore the gender in the prompt if that isn’t applicable.]
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” your hiking partner screams. “Holy shit! Where the fuck did that massive boulder come from?! It just fell right out of the sky! Oh my god, [insert-your-name-here], are you okay? [Insert-your-name-here]? Oh no, oh my god – wait is that a – holy shit, giants are real!”