WolfSol
Brain cashew smooth
Most of these prompts are challenges received by a Discord server I joined that was founded by fellow RPN members. If you want to join it to help improve your writing or just give you something to do, lemme know! We're just writing in hopes to improve ourselves.
Prompt: A curious person asks someone why the moon changes every night. The answer they received was unexpected.
A war that had, at one point, seemed warranted. Now? It felt pointless, irrelevant, but that could be the pain talking. That or it could have been the bite of exhaustion and constant hunger.
“Joey!” His name cracked like a gunshot over the expanse of dead grass, and it pulled him forward. His fingers dug into the wound at his side, applied more pressure as he tried desperately to sit up. The movement only seemed to rouse the blood within him. His body was too wracked with winter to feel the hot blood flowing freely against his fingers though. Yet the pain was as prevalent as the tears that gnawed at the corners of his eyes.
His friend, his brother-in-arms, noticed it--the blood--though as he ran underneath the spray of gunfire. Joey watched as the younger man jumped forward and dove for the half wall of sandbags. His head hit the sandbags, and his rifle nearly crashed into Joey’s own long arm. He’d discarded it at his side, its barrel pointed skyward, but it knocked over as soon as his friend slid to his side.
“Joey, I’ve been loo-oh God-” his friend’s voice faltered as his face drew level with Joey’s, “holy-Joey!” He’d never once heard his friend’s voice reach such a pitch until then. A sharp, drawled cry that only helped in accenting the pain he was trying desperately to ignore.
His friend’s hands ghosted over his own hands like fledglings, and with a quivering voice, he said, “you promised me.”
Yes, he had. A promise that he would make it home in one piece. A promise that he wouldn’t die like a dog on the side of the road. They both had made that promise. A promise that, at one point, had seemed so tangible that they’d made it underneath the guise of a joke. How childish.
“Not dead yet.” Joey smiled sheepishly, but he could tell from his friend’s expression that the smile was probably a grimace.
There was a pause between them. Then his friend’s hands withdrew, and they found solace in gripping the long-arm against his chest. “You better not. You can’t. Forget our promise. What about Maryanne?” There was a hollowness in his voice, and it drew a shudder from Joey. Right, Maryanne, the love he’d left behind.
She’d made him promise too. Promise you’ll come home, Joe. Their promise hadn’t been made within the depths of humor.
How childish he’d been. Of course. I’ll always come back to you.
“She’ll be all right. She’s strong. Strongest woman I know.” It was a struggle to speak aloud underneath war’s smog and the wave of pain. He managed though. He needed to say it aloud, assure himself that she’d be okay.
His friend bit his lip, but said no more as the battlefield twisted and pulled all around them. They melted into their own slip of silence, an unspoken conversation leading them on. But silence at that moment seemed so depressing. The pain was gradually ebbing away, and it made Joey’s fate all the more real. He wouldn’t be seeing through any of his promises.
It was then that his hands relaxed, and he subsided on the pressure. His head rolled back then, hard hat butting the sandbags behind him, and his eyes lifted toward the night sky. It was as thick and black as the dread that he tried to ignore, just like the pain. It seemed to stretch as far as the battlefield, and it was starless, devoid of hope. Nothing but the moon remained, bright and large. It was as if it was the last light, the light at the end of his tunnel.
“Lucas, why do you… why do you think the moon changes?” He whispered.
There was a pregnant pause as his friend crawled closer to him, and replied solemnly, “it represents the passage of time.”
Yes, and no. Joey faintly shook his head. “It represents a beginning and an end. The full moon…” his eyes squinted against the bulbous moon that rested high above them, “is the promise of an end. It’s the end of the cycle.”
“Don’t. Stop that. You’re not going to-”
“Sure, it only has a few phases, and its cycle lasts for thirty days.” His lips shook into a small smile. Thirty days, more like thirty years. Death at thirty years old, an age that he’d at one point in his life thought was “old.” It seemed so young now, as if his life had never even truly begun.
“Shut up. Just wait, we’ll get out of this, and you’ll-”
“Hey, how old are you again? Twenty-six? Ha, you still got… four years. The war should be done in four years.” Joey asked, and his friend once again drew up and leveled with Joey’s gaze.
“Joey, stop. You’re not-you can’t die.” His friend’s eyes were wide, as wide as the moon. For the first time since their deployment, Joey watched as fear painted over his friend’s face.
“You’ll outlive your lunar phase, right? You’ve got to now, for my sake.”
“No, quit that. Stop speaking nonsense. You’re fine, okay?”
It’s a promise, right?
“Fine-Joey, no. Stop, don’t close your eyes. Joey! Come on, wake up.”
Promise me that you’ll outlive me.
Prompt: A curious person asks someone why the moon changes every night. The answer they received was unexpected.
Promises under the Moon
966 words
The sea of dead grass, tainted by the blood of countless men, stretched out underneath the thick wintry night. A night that was devoured by a thick smoke of war, gunpowder and battle cries. Darkened with the stench of decay, sweat, and metal; a stench that had at one point been numb to the man’s senses, but now it was his anchor. It kept him grounded as his nose scrunched up at the detestable scent. A distraction from the blood oozing between his fingers, from the war that continued around him.966 words
A war that had, at one point, seemed warranted. Now? It felt pointless, irrelevant, but that could be the pain talking. That or it could have been the bite of exhaustion and constant hunger.
“Joey!” His name cracked like a gunshot over the expanse of dead grass, and it pulled him forward. His fingers dug into the wound at his side, applied more pressure as he tried desperately to sit up. The movement only seemed to rouse the blood within him. His body was too wracked with winter to feel the hot blood flowing freely against his fingers though. Yet the pain was as prevalent as the tears that gnawed at the corners of his eyes.
His friend, his brother-in-arms, noticed it--the blood--though as he ran underneath the spray of gunfire. Joey watched as the younger man jumped forward and dove for the half wall of sandbags. His head hit the sandbags, and his rifle nearly crashed into Joey’s own long arm. He’d discarded it at his side, its barrel pointed skyward, but it knocked over as soon as his friend slid to his side.
“Joey, I’ve been loo-oh God-” his friend’s voice faltered as his face drew level with Joey’s, “holy-Joey!” He’d never once heard his friend’s voice reach such a pitch until then. A sharp, drawled cry that only helped in accenting the pain he was trying desperately to ignore.
His friend’s hands ghosted over his own hands like fledglings, and with a quivering voice, he said, “you promised me.”
Yes, he had. A promise that he would make it home in one piece. A promise that he wouldn’t die like a dog on the side of the road. They both had made that promise. A promise that, at one point, had seemed so tangible that they’d made it underneath the guise of a joke. How childish.
“Not dead yet.” Joey smiled sheepishly, but he could tell from his friend’s expression that the smile was probably a grimace.
There was a pause between them. Then his friend’s hands withdrew, and they found solace in gripping the long-arm against his chest. “You better not. You can’t. Forget our promise. What about Maryanne?” There was a hollowness in his voice, and it drew a shudder from Joey. Right, Maryanne, the love he’d left behind.
She’d made him promise too. Promise you’ll come home, Joe. Their promise hadn’t been made within the depths of humor.
How childish he’d been. Of course. I’ll always come back to you.
“She’ll be all right. She’s strong. Strongest woman I know.” It was a struggle to speak aloud underneath war’s smog and the wave of pain. He managed though. He needed to say it aloud, assure himself that she’d be okay.
His friend bit his lip, but said no more as the battlefield twisted and pulled all around them. They melted into their own slip of silence, an unspoken conversation leading them on. But silence at that moment seemed so depressing. The pain was gradually ebbing away, and it made Joey’s fate all the more real. He wouldn’t be seeing through any of his promises.
It was then that his hands relaxed, and he subsided on the pressure. His head rolled back then, hard hat butting the sandbags behind him, and his eyes lifted toward the night sky. It was as thick and black as the dread that he tried to ignore, just like the pain. It seemed to stretch as far as the battlefield, and it was starless, devoid of hope. Nothing but the moon remained, bright and large. It was as if it was the last light, the light at the end of his tunnel.
“Lucas, why do you… why do you think the moon changes?” He whispered.
There was a pregnant pause as his friend crawled closer to him, and replied solemnly, “it represents the passage of time.”
Yes, and no. Joey faintly shook his head. “It represents a beginning and an end. The full moon…” his eyes squinted against the bulbous moon that rested high above them, “is the promise of an end. It’s the end of the cycle.”
“Don’t. Stop that. You’re not going to-”
“Sure, it only has a few phases, and its cycle lasts for thirty days.” His lips shook into a small smile. Thirty days, more like thirty years. Death at thirty years old, an age that he’d at one point in his life thought was “old.” It seemed so young now, as if his life had never even truly begun.
“Shut up. Just wait, we’ll get out of this, and you’ll-”
“Hey, how old are you again? Twenty-six? Ha, you still got… four years. The war should be done in four years.” Joey asked, and his friend once again drew up and leveled with Joey’s gaze.
“Joey, stop. You’re not-you can’t die.” His friend’s eyes were wide, as wide as the moon. For the first time since their deployment, Joey watched as fear painted over his friend’s face.
“You’ll outlive your lunar phase, right? You’ve got to now, for my sake.”
“No, quit that. Stop speaking nonsense. You’re fine, okay?”
It’s a promise, right?
“Fine-Joey, no. Stop, don’t close your eyes. Joey! Come on, wake up.”
Promise me that you’ll outlive me.
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