Writing Prompts … Again

So I thought about some clever way to say Writing Prompt Tuesday that would fit with the Ts and yadda yadda yadda. Unfortunately, my brain just kept saying “Writing Prompt Wednesday”. Now I am confused and I think it might be Wednesday. Thank you, brain. In any case, I really like the idea of doing 2 or 3 writing prompts on Reddit each week, just to keep my skills sharp. I thought too, though, that I would share what I do decide to respond to with you. That being said, enjoy my bits of flash fiction below:

[WP] “EVERY CHARACTER SHOULD WANT SOMETHING, EVEN IF IT IS ONLY A GLASS OF WATER.” WRITE THE STORY OF A CHARACTER THAT WANTS A GLASS OF WATER.

Desire is the impetus of mankind. It is our driving force. But, what if all we want is something simple? Something denied us? I spent the last couple of days battling demons, throwing off shackles, and conquering devils. I had a need, a thirst. One would think it would be a simple conjuration. A slight tug on the elements and BAM, my thirst is quenched. It wasn’t so easy. Magic in Fae is different, I couldn’t simply grab a couple of hydrogen atoms from air and slam it together with some oxygen. I am not even sure what I was breathing was oxygen.

This side of the realm is different, disjointed. Sure, I could try to call up my magic. I could force what I thought was hydrogen and oxygen together. I might form the fires of hell for all I know. That would be rich, I’d throw my magical chemistry set together and BOOM! I get napalm or some other scary as hell shit.

What does it take for a man to get a fucking drink of water? I mean seriously, I just need a glass of water, hell, I’d settle for a stream.

[WP] VIOLENCE MY GOOD MAN, IS THE ANSWER IN THIS CASE.

John sat in his ’69 Baja Beetle. Jet blue flames painted on the hood crept up around the front wheel wells and onto the doors. The engine idled and he sat staring at the man. John didn’t want to use his name. Using the man’s name would acknowledge that the man deserved a name. The man had taken everything from John. He didn’t want to think about what the man had taken, just that it was everything. Thinking about it hurt too much. Thinking about it made him want to hurt the man. So John sat in his bug, engine idling.

“What are you waiting for?” a voice asked. John didn’t turn, but he knew the little red imp sat in the seat next to him. Belsheb, the demon was called. “Point and shoot,” Belsheb said.

“No,” John said, narrowing his eyes at the man.

“But he killed her,” Belsheb said. “Raped her, flayed her, and killed her.”

John didn’t want to think about it. Vicky, the name echoed in his mind. It raked hot coals against his thoughts. The pain rushed to the surface again. John’s eyes burned with fresh tears. The man had taken Vicky away. The man had hurt her and mutilated her. The man deserved to die. John sobbed.

“Point and shoot,” Belsheb said again. The red little imp had leapt up to his feet now. Clawed appendages hung at his sides and his round belly shook with anticipation. Fiery purple eyes stared at John and the man simultaneously. A raw hungry sound escaped the demons throat. “Violence, my good man,” Belsheb said. “Is the answer in this case. Point and shoot!” The demon hissed with a frenzied desire.

John lifted the revolver. He didn’t want to shoot the man, but the man had done it, had taken his Vicky away. A tear fell from his eye. It traced his cheek and fell from his chin. John put the barrel of the gun against his temple and he shot the man. The demon shouted with glee and danced a little jig. He had made John into the man and John had killed the man.

[WP] “NOW WHY WOULD I LET SUCH A SMALL THING AS DEATH KEEP ME FROM FINISHING MY MASTERPIECE?”

I am dead. I mean really really dead. The details of how I died aren’t pertinent to anything, so I’ll leave them out, suffice to say there’s no coming back for me. At least no coming back in the traditional sense. I knew a few necromancers in my day, so I called in a favor. It is an odd thing, being a ghost. Odder still when some black magic yanks your ghostly self and pounds it wholesale back into your mangled corpse.

Like I said, I called in a favor. I wasn’t done you see. Her eyes, I hadn’t finished with her eyes. I couldn’t let her stay blind, I had to give her sight. My friend, he restored me for this task, to finish my masterpiece. I came back to strike my tools against her face, to swipe and color her. I finished. To death I shall return, forever my Mona Lisa will see.

Let me know what you think of my flash fiction and my idea in the comments. Until next time folks.

Your Friendly Neighborhood Author,

DJ Morand