16 Dec 2019
Today’s prompt: “Imagine a character at two very different ages, and describe his or her day at each age.”
“Yo Carly! You ready?”
Carly shoveled a final spoonful of Honey Nut Cheerios into her mouth before reluctantly picking up her backpack and slipping into the passenger seat beside her older brother Jake. Jake pushed buttons on the radio until he found music instead of morning show jockeys, then pulled the car out of the garage. He and Carly drove to school in silence, song lyrics from the FM station providing the only dialogue. They preferred it that way as a rule, but Carly was particularly grateful for the silence today. The last couple weeks had royally sucked.
Her breakup with Brad would’ve been hard enough on its own, but Brad was pretty popular. She’d been admitted to the popular kids’ circle when they started dating, but now that they were done, she’d been kicked a few rungs further down the ladder than she’d started.
Carly’s main locker was decorated with spit wads when she arrived at school.
Her P.E. locker had notes slipped through the vents. Most of them called her “whore” and “slut,” but there were more creative and disgusting ones implying she probably sodomized vegetables or needed to shave her back hair.
Carly was everyone’s favorite target during dodgeball that day.
At lunch, Veronica and Britney deliberately filled the remaining open chairs at their table with backpacks when they saw her walk by with a lunch tray. As if she didn’t already know better than to even try to sit with them.
In fifth period science, the guy who sat behind her put gum in her hair.
After her last class, Carly had grabbed her books from her freshly spit-wad-studded locker and was heading outside when she spotted Veronica, Britney and Jessica talking together in the hall. A few weeks ago, they’d been her friends. Or so she thought.
“Do you guys smell carnival barf?” Veronica said loudly. She pointedly sniffed the air, then with mock surprise said, “Oh, Carly, I didn’t see you there.”
“Speaking of carnival barf, where did you get your shirt, Carly?” Jessica asked. “Was Sears having a sale on all their ugly stuff?”
“Oh, give her a break, Jessica,” Veronica said. “She needed something that would go with her hair.”
“She needed something that would go with her face!” Britney laughed.
Carly’s face burned as she trudged to her brother’s car, the girls’ laughter echoing behind her.
Seventeen years later, Carly pocketed a Larabar and poured a travel mug full of coffee. She dropped her kids off at grade school and drove to the compound. She popped her trunk, donned the hooded black robe neatly folded inside, and picked up the silver dagger.
The man at the door scrambled to hold it open for her. Cultists within the compound hushed their chatter and bowed low at her approach.
“Is everything ready?” Carly asked a white-haired gentleman.
“Yes. The sacrifice is prepared,” he replied.
“Gather everyone up. We’ll start in 10 minutes,” Carly said, and ducked into an office.
Carly unwrapped her Larabar and calmly, solemnly sipped her coffee and chewed the bar. She idly scrolled through her Instagram feed. Footsteps rushed down the hall as people ran to take their places, and Carly made a mental note to soundproof her office. It was impossible to concentrate with that herd running down the hall.
Fifteen minutes later, Carly strode out of her office to the auditorium, where you were chained up over a sigil, surrounded by a circle of cultists. She unsheathed her dagger and led the cultists in a chant.
It had been 17 years, but Carly still imagined Veronica’s face when she stabbed you.
14 Dec 2019
Today’s prompt: “Tell the world’s saddest joke”
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Cultists who need you for a sacrifice.
Cultists who need you for a sacrifice who?
12 Dec 2019
Today’s prompt: “Going it alone”
The rumbling sound of rocks falling into place between you and daylight is deafening. The mine shaft is completely blocked.
Your walkie-talkie crackles. You hear José calling your name over and over, panic rising in his voice.
“I’m okay, José,” you radio back. “Is everyone else out?”
“Mike and Duante got hurt, but they’re safe,” he says. “Everyone else is on this side. There’s like a mountain of rock here. Can you get to the auxiliary shaft?”
“I’ll give it a shot,” you say.
You sweep your helmet flashlight around the cave. You grab a drill and some blasting caps and detonators, just in case. You hear a sharp chirp behind you, and you grab the canary in its cage.
You’re a bit disoriented following the cave-in. Everything looks different. It’s like the whole shaft has been carved anew, with small outcroppings of rock to pick your way over. Nothing blocking your way just yet, though. You start walking.
At some points, the shaft seems totally familiar, like the tunnel you’ve been working in for the last seven months. At others, it looks like an alien landscape.
Static cuts through your reverie. “One of the ambulances just got here. They’re taking Duante to the hospital. I guess Mike wasn’t hurt that bad,” José says.
“Oh, cool,” you say.
“How you holding up in there?”
“I’m trying to get to auxiliary,” you say. “The whole shaft feels wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong?”
“I don’t know. Nothing looks like it’s supposed to.”
“Huh.” José pauses. “You need to keep coming toward the surface. Let’s get you to some fresh air.”
The canary chimes in with a chirp as you radio back to José, “Ten-four.”
You’ve gone several minutes now without having to pick your way over any cave-in rubble, but the shaft doesn’t look any more familiar. It’s just one cave wall blurring into the next. It doesn’t make any sense. You’ve worked here long enough that you ought to recognize it.
You stumble a bit, but just catch yourself in time. The canary flutters and chirps angrily in its cage.
“How’s it coming?” José asks over the walkie-talkie.
Your thumb flicks dumbly at the switch. “Getting there,” you say. “It’s a long trip up.”
“You doing okay?”
“I think so,” you say.
“Well, hurry up here. We’re all worried about you.”
You’re back into more rubble. You clamber over a small hill of rock and hoist the cage over behind you. You squeeze through gaps in tunnels narrowed by fallen detritus.
You stop for a break, squat down near the ground and breathe deeply.
Static squeals from your walkie-talkie, then silences.
You try to radio back. “José? José?”
Another outburst of static erupts from the walkie-talkie, but you can’t make out voices.
You give up trying to contact José, stand up, and grab the canary cage. And that’s when you realize. The canary hasn’t said anything in a long while.
Don’t at me, bro – I know canaries haven’t been used in coal mines since like the 80’s. I thought the story was better this way.
10 Dec 2019
Today’s prompt: “Rewrite the description from above [Dec. 8] in the passive voice – whereby no one does anything. (‘My cell was forgotten. Lint was the only thing the couch had to offer. A call to my friend went nowhere.’)”
Weapons were nowhere to be found. Gun safe dials were rotated, combinations were attempted, but no firearms were yielded by the safe. There were no axes to be seen in the shed. A small knife was found, to no avail. The gullet of Nyctelios was passed through by you on your way to your short new life in your acid-filled new home.
08 Dec 2019
Today’s prompt: “What was the last thing you cared about that you misplaced? Write about what happened, with as many sentences as possible in the active voice. (“I forgot my cell. I looked under the couch. I called a friend.”)
You search for weapons. You run to the gun safe. Your fingers tremble as you attempt the combination. You try 12-18-24. You try 12-24-18. You try 18-24-12. You try 12-18-24 again. You try rotating the dial an extra time in between the 12 and the 18. The door of the safe refuses to budge. You run to the shed. You look for your axe. Your eyes scan the dark shelves and the pegboard. You return to your house empty-handed. You run to the kitchen. You fling yourself at the butcher block. You select a carving knife. You hold your tiny carving knife up to the worm-covered, gigantic, blue, cyclopean form of Nyctelios. You inflict a very small wound on Nyctelios’ thigh. Nyctelios eats you.
06 Dec 2019
Today’s prompt: “A moment of forgiveness”
You can’t really blame someone for being hungry, can you? You can’t blame them for needing sustenance? Some might see Cthulhu as a monster, but is that really the totality of the picture?
Okay yes he’s really a monster with giant stature and bat wings and mouth tentacles, but his need to devour you is at least forgiveable, right?
04 Dec 2019
Today’s prompt: “It’s your first day on Death Row. Plan the next ten years of your life in this eight-by-ten cell, as you wait for your day to come.”
Days 1 through 3,652: Eat terrible food. Daydream of life outside. Regret what you did (a little). Regret that you got caught (a lot). Do pushups. Read. Make marks on the walls of your cell. Exhaust your appeals.
Day 3,653: Die.