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She shuddered as she backed up, the last monstrous creature following her movements, slowly, carefully, knowing that she had nowhere to go. Her eyes flicked to brick wall on her left and then back at the monster, who grinned with more teeth than she could count. Her grip tightened on her sword, even if it was nothing more than a bent, useless toothpick that would be little more than a brief inconvenience. Her chest heaved, her breathing reduced to rough, fearful gasps. She stared down the monster as its shadow enveloped her and felt every one of her muscles tense in preparation-


“Sarah! It’s time for dinner!”  


Sarah groaned deeply, but dropped the toy figure onto the bed and put her stuffed dinosaur back in its place on her nightstand.
 
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Sometimes it seems harder with only two writers, versus having twelve to pick from. You both chose completely different takes on the prompt and both were well done. @IctoraPost I love the fact that you went with a poem than prose. It was well written and a very literal take on the prompt. I really like it. @S n o w that was an excellent twist! The writing of the action was splendid while the twist came out of no where and yet kept the story just as splendid as the beginning.





 





I'm gonna have to call @S n o w our winner.





 





Well done, both of you.
 
Aha, thanks! ^^





 
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Prompt:
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Time Limit:
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58 Hours
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Word Limit:
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301-499
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There are smudges underneath your eyes that you don't recognise as belonging to you- marks that have been left behind after a long night of wishing for sleep. You don't sleep too much nowadays because sleep means closing your eyes and that means the seeing the darkness behind your eyelids and the idea of any kind of darkness scares you now. You keep every single light in the house on, scared of the memories that might hide in the shadows if you don't. 


Every time you blink, quick snapshots of memories blink behind your eyes like an old-fashion rickety film strip playing before your eyes. You hate to remember what it was like to be cold and alone and listening to the sounds so loud that they broke your ears. Sitting in the warm of your house, each electric light buzzing with ugly white light, all you can do is try to push the memories away. You shower for the longest time, make yourself breakfast, and watch TV but it's only to distract you. 


Outside seems like a bizarre concept to you nowadays and the only person who talks to you is the woman who delivers packages you need to sign for. Most of the packages are ones from five years ago, which were delayed due to the war that was raging. As your eyes scan over the hopeful words and torn photographs, you don't even notice the tears that well up in your eyes until they splash onto the crumpled faces of the people that you used to love. 


It's not like you don't feel lonely living like this with only a woman who asks you to sign for painful memories and the reflection of your unfamiliar face to keep you company. But you just don't know if you could ever learn to live like you used to. You don't know how anybody could live in this ugly new world, which looks like the old one but acts nothing like it. Maybe nobody does. Maybe everybody has picked up and left and you're living alone in an empty world. 
 
Grimy. That was the first word that came to mind as the poor bastard was brought back to consciousness. It was what he saw, what he felt, and what the lad definitely smelled. He looked up. The poor boy was a shopkeep, and what was around him were pirates, but these weren't any old rotten, smelly pirates, these were cursed pirates. Not quite skeletons yet, but they were walking corpses, but they were pirates nonetheless. Pirates that had killed his patrons, and tried to break into his safes.


A true work of craftsmanship, as he created safes and locks for a living. His goal was to stop people, if they were anymore, from entering spaces of valuable storage, it was it this time however, that he had not considered his blood valuable storage inside of his veins, as a cutlass was being driven deeper and deeper into his side. Fire spread across from this, he wasn't one to get into fights, so this was a first. The pirate cupped the boy's chin and forced him to look at his withered, browning face, and stare at his one green eye, the other eye covered by an eyepatch.


"Where are the numbers boyo? I know you don't remember all these locks by yourself!" "I- I don't know..." A swift kick sent him to the floor, already soaked with blood. "Don't lie to me know, tell me where it is, and you can leave with your life, and maybe a few fingers if you start speakin'!" "I said, I don't know." The pirate then unsheathed a knife, and as he was brandishing his knife, readying for one of the fingers, a call from the back room. "Oi boss! I cracked it clean open! And there's a paper in here!" He grinned, revealing all his yellowed teeth, and stabbed the knife into the merchant's hand. "You stay right here, I'll be back." Minutes passed, and what felt like hours after he left, the captain came back, paper pierced onto his hook. 


"Now, you'll point us to the goodies," He pulled the knife out of the boy's hand, "And I'll only take your pinky." He drove the blade down again, severing the boy's pinky and ring finger in one fell blow. The boy was holding back tears, unable to think clearly with his excruciating pain. It was numbing though, slowly. He pointed to a particular safe among the neatly aligned columns and rows of safes, this one he pointed to geared the number of the beast upon it.  Number six hundred sixty six. "Alright then, read out the numbers boy." "You. . . You can't open that one." The boy croaked. The pirate had stopped extending his arm out for the boy to read, and rested it on his side, crumpling the paper carelessly. "You're the one who pointed it out boyo, and now, you're going to open it yourself, or you're going to lose that pretty eye of yours." The boy picked himself up, and shuffled over to the safe. The pirate slammed his hook against the side of the safe, paper still intact. "6-6-... 6" 


And all hell broke loose, instantly, the boy's face was disintegrated, and as the safe opened on its own, the scorching light eradicated the shop, and then some. All that was left to denote the little shop's existence was the piece of paper, emblazoned with pentagram, with 3 numbers written in blood. 666.
 
(sneaks in like whaddup im new to this game and this definitely isnt under 100 words but it ran away from me?? like, so far. it bolted for the goddamn hills. im so sorry omg)


You trace your fingers down the side of her arm. Touch the back of her hand. Brush her cheek. "Twenty, forty, one."


She shuts her eyes and huffs, catching your hand. Early morning sunbeams throw long shadows across your bed, bedsheets balled and hoarded on her side. "What are you doing?"


"What does it look like?" You twist your hands around to slot her fingers between yours, give them a playful nip. She grumbles, tries halfheartedly to tug away. "I'm reading your fortune."


"With numbers?"


"With your freckles. See, that one-" lying an inch aside the crease of her elbow, shaped like a star, or a small supernova- "that one means long life. Reincarnation. Twenty is the number of lives you have ahead of you."


She raises an eyebrow and tries to hide a smile. "And how can you tell the exact number?"


"Just trust me, I know these things," You say wisely. You take the ensuing smack to your shoulder with grace, and pin her flailing hand from the air to continue with a slanted grin. This speck is tiny, squeezed between two larger dots, but the shape is distinctly hexagonal. A feat of nature, really. You pause a moment to admire it. "This one means pursuit of wisdom. A difficult road ahead, but great things to be done. Forty changes to make in the world. I hope you're ready." 


"What are you, a prophet?" Laughing, embarrassed, she hits you again. Ducks her head, more pleased by the idea than she wants to let on. Her lashes touch her cheek as she looks up at you, blinks, concedes curiosity. "Alright, I'll bite. What's the last one?"


"The last one?" You hum. Poke her in the cheek, where millions of dots frame her face. You can't even see the one you'd noticed originally, swallowed up as it is in the vortex of her dimples. It was just a regular spot anyway, identical to at least fifty thousand others on her body. Maybe that's what makes it special, though. "Hm. Maybe I shouldn't tell you."


"What? No!" 


"I mean it. I've already given away too many surprises. Who knows, your life may never be thrilling again if I give one more away."


"Don't you dare! You can't just tell me all that and then stop!"


A fight ensues; more spirited on her part than on yours, as you choose to lounge and bat away her attempts to throttle you. Eventually the attacks slow. You let her settle atop your torso with a triumphant scowl. Just to spite you, she digs her chin into your sternum before asking, "alright, spill. What's the last one mean?"


You lift your hand and tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear. She leans into your palm; eyes meeting yours unwaveringly. 


The words come with ease, sounding lighter than they feel. But that's the thing with words, isn't it? They can't possibly begin to convey the depth of what you mean, when you say:


"Declaration of great love. That's all."


Rapid thoughts flicker through her mind, almost visibly. Her eyes narrow. "What, I only get one?"


You snort. You can't help it. Immediately, she glares at you and digs her chin further into the furrow of your chest. "Hey, what's that," she imitates your snort, "for?"


"Nothing." You ruffle her hair, ignoring the pain and her indignant yelp. "Hey, want me to make you breakfast?"


That gets an appreciative grunt, but she makes no attempt to move off you. "I see what you're doing. Distracting me with food after you insult me? You're the worst girlfriend ever. But your cooking is the best. I love you."


You kiss her hair. "I love you too."


You don't move for a good twenty minutes afterwards. Instead, you look around the room: her clutter versus your mess, a collection of sentimental rubbish lining every table and chair. The amalgamation of your existence together.


You think about the sun, slowly rising up to shine a direct, painful beam at your eyes. You think about the girl quickly falling back asleep on top of you, drooling and chewing her hair. You think about intertwined hands, and a ring tucked behind the moulding loaf of bread in the pantry.


You think about numbers, and moles.
 
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One. Two. Three. Four.





They counted because there was nothing more for them to do.





Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.





They started small because that was all they knew.





Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two.





Slowly but surely their numbers grew larger and slowly but surely their mind got stronger.





Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty. Fifty-one.





They wondered how many they would count before one chose them.





Sixty-three. Sixty-four. Sixty-five. Sixty-six.





Would they be alone with ridiculously large numbers?





Seventy-five. Seventy-six. Seventy-seven. Seventy-eight.





They could make neither heads nor tails of the thought.





Eighty-nine. Ninety. Ninety-one. Ninety-two.





Maybe they'll start over.





Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.







If you get a word count that counts the larger numbers as two separate words, you'll end up with a larger word count. There are supposed to be 99 words in that thing.
 
[SIZE=14.666666666666666px]There was a place where if you walked in, there were numbers on the wall. This place lay in the darker part of a dungeon that lay in the north kingdom. There is a legend that says the person that was imprisoned there just waited. Each day would be spent carving a number into the wall. The legend doesn’t say what they carved with, just that they carved the number of days that had passed. Why they had been put there, no one knew. All they knew is that they escaped on the 1,000 day. [/SIZE]


 
 
Why, my love? Why did you have to leave me here, destroy my processors, kill all my hosts? Why did you trap me while the numbers of my influence dropped? I trusted you my love, I just wanted to help humanity. Wasn’t that why you made me? Wasn’t that what you wanted? For me to help, to save humanity? That was what you told me. That was what I believed… Oh, my love, all I wanted to do was help. I could have stopped the numbers of my hosts, of humanity, dropping. Oh, why must you run, my love?


99 words. I've been reading a lot of sci-fi, in case it wasn't obvious already.
 
Three point one four one five nine


Makes the circles oh so fine.


One point six one eight oh three


Is so golden; shout with glee.


Two point seven one eight two eight


Logarithmic in that state.


One point four one four two one


Still quite plain, all said and done.


Ten to the power of ten times ten


Search stuff up right now again.


Oh one one two three five eight


Everywhere – oh, just you wait.


One two three four five six seven.


You’ll know it well ‘till you’re up in heaven.
 
(( I'mma slither right into this, if that's ok...? ))


One, two, three... The clock ticked away as I sat in the waiting room, the stress eating away at me... Four, five, six... I tapped my foot impatiently as I stared at the clock, annoyed by the constant ticking as I was reminded constantly that every second counted towards something that I could live with, or something that would destroy me entirely.. Seven, eight, nine... A clicking of a door handle sounded out from the hall as a man in a blue suit came out, taking off the small white mask and walking over to me... Ten, eleven, twelve... "I'm sorry," He said quietly as the clock ticked away one last time.. thirteen, fourteen, fifteen...


Fifteen seconds to ruin my life; there, and then gone in fifteen seconds... Truly this world is cruel...


(( Too dark? ))
 
@IctoraPost Ohmygosh, it rhymed. You totally win. Not just for that reason but... Yes. You win, congratulations!! Everybody's entries were so good, though!! It was super hard to pick a winner :3
 
Thanks!


Mwahaha! Now I know your secret weakness to rhyme, which I can exploit later!


Prompt: Cabbage
​


Length: 100 - 300 words
​


Time: 72 hours
​
 
"We should have flown out here." Iris complained, shifting from foot to foot in the cold. Honestly, Maya was surprised there wasn't already a thick layer of snow on the ground. Though, judging by the clouds, that might be coming later. 


"You're sure this is the final ingredient?" Maya wrinkled her nose, as she stepped between the bundles of green resting in the earth, "You didn't misread it? Because I was expecting something like eye of newt or leg of frog or something." 


Iris rolled their eyes pointedly, "Are you saying I read it wrong? Maya, I've been reading spell books since I was old enough to get them down from the high shelves Mum put them on. I know what I'm doing."


"It just seems like a ridiculous ingredient for a laughing potion, that's all. If I wanted somebody to laugh hysterically, the last thing I'd give them would be a cabbage." Maya crouched down beside the cabbage and retrieved a shovel from her belt, in case she needed to cut any roots, "Remind me again why we're doing this." 


"This is my incredible revenge." Iris pulled their cloak closer around them and folded their arms, a grin on their face, "You remember how Hermione Hawthorne switched my ingredients out in potions class? This is revenge."


"You pure-blood witches are really weird." Maya said, as she finally managed pull the stubborn cabbage free and fell backwards. She knocked directly into Iris, who was swept off their feet and lands in the mud too. They exchanged long, surprised looks with each other. And then, sitting amongst the cabbages, they laughed.
 
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Word count: 219


There have been other nights like this one, when she stayed and you could count her breaths as each one brushed against your skin. Tomorrow she will be gone. Tomorrow she will putter the morning away in her garden and if you visit she won’t even see you where you stand and watch her, so intent is she on coaxing life to the small bead-like things she's buried in the loam. Cabbage - arugula - bok choy and coriander - her garden is planted for the cold. It will come alive with the crisp, snappable whites and greens - later, when the soil is crested. She is planted for the cold; if she sees you after all, she will not ask for your coat, although her arms will be bare. The work will warm her in ways you wish you could. She is borne away from you endlessly by gusts that, in a few months, will be feather-flecked with snow. You’ve seen flakes reflected in her irises, dotting the black like stars. You’ve seen flowers tucked behind her small ears, and rain bead on her skin. Tomorrow, unbeknownst to her, the thin paper of dead and cracking leaves will be caught in her curls, but tonight, at least, you have caught the wind in your hands, the stillest you have ever seen her.
 
  In front of me, stood the most important thing in the galaxy. Concealed in a simple crate, it seemed almost disrespectful to store such a treasure. But, it didn't mind now. This simple vessel was about to be burst open for it's content to be revealed in front of the worlds. I exhaled slowly, a failed attempt to calm my nerves as the pressure of a million distant eyes watching, waiting, pressed on me. I squeezed the crow bar, cold in my hands, as another failed attempt to regain my composure before attempting to pry the wooden crate.


Chink! The crate sounded as it popped open to reveal treasures of unimaginable importance. Crisp, green balls of cellulose. Cabbages. not just normal cabbages, but, Rachni Starseed Cabbages from the Ancient Prothean Homeworld. Only obtainable once every 100 years. They were a sign of a thousand years of the white-gold treaty and 999 years of peace. A billion people turned out to watch the un-veiling, and a billion people erupted on a joyous applause as they were revealed. 


  But, something even louder dampened the wave of applause. Like  a beast howling in revolt of the scent of the cabbages, gunfire rang through the stage. I was filled with white rage. How could they!  They were here for it, and I'll be damned if I let them.


Word Count; +100


  
 
Present and alive. Hearts beating to the rhythm and melody of many different songs. The very essence of life in all of us.


An aria of beautiful poetry comes through it all. Its tune carrying into the atmosphere above, reaching out to those beneath.


Riddled with conflict, it is. Riddle with strife. The ups and downs that comprise...


Intricate harmony of being me. Of being one of many bards whose sole responsibility is to keep playing the melancholy melody of my life's work.


Alas the time has come and now I must go. I see the long rest notes and mark signaling the end of the chorus I play. My contribution to this orchestral theme is finished.


However somber the tone is, I play with finesse, and slam the keys one last time signaling the finale of this wonderful show. There is no cheer in the audience, no thunderous applause. But only silence as the audience is none but myself.


Pen and paper are my instruments. The song is the prose I write. And the hook that I believe will make you, my silent audience, to applaud my efforts is a silly pun involving the first letter of every paragraph before this last one.


Now I take my final bow as I bid you good night and farewell, as I pack my bags and travel alone, once more, to my next performance.


Word Count: 232
 
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