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WritingPrompts

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Joe Golem
Image prompt from /u/TheGinofGan
We are a subreddit dedicated to inspiring people to write! Find a prompt that moves you and respond with a story or a poem. FAQ »
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all 116 comments
[–]chemicalcalm132 427 points428 points429 points  (9 children)
"My parents died when I was very young." Lucy sighs, staring wistfully into the pink cocktail. "I know." I answer coldly.
How many times have we re-enacted this scene? Brilliant, bubbly, blonde Lucy meets me in a bar after a dramatic car chase turned stand off. She tells the tragic tale of her parents' murder, and her deep admiration of detectives. I take her back to my apartment, we make wild, passionate love, and she's gone by morning.
Every time I end up back at this bar, she's here. The blonde in the red dress with the tragic back story.
The flower shop down the street has the ironically standoffish Emma. The strip joint houses the femme fatale Jacqueline, with her jet black hair and razor sharp nails. Then the coffee shop on the corner of main and fifth, that's where Sally always appears; the young mother, fated to die.
When I arrived in this world, I was ecstatic. Finally I could live the exciting life that I was always chasing. My fiction had become my reality! I disposed of the true protagonist, Detective Matt Steele, and took his place in the narrative. Now my goal was to solve his murder. Obviously being the killer, I can't, or rather I won't, advance the plot... so I'm trapped, with these cardboard women I wrote, and some really watery beer.
"They were murdered." Lucy continues.
[–]schlemz 79 points80 points81 points  (1 child)
Pretty awesome. I like how he thinks all those thoughts between 2 sentences it really deepens the character.
[–]JakePops 4 points5 points6 points  (0 children)
I imagined him thinking and not listening to Stella while she tells a detailed story of the whole thing. I think the "They were murdered." line was the last sentence of her story.
[–]a_mediocre_man 17 points18 points19 points  (6 children)
winrar
[–]No_Backup 2 points3 points4 points  (0 children)
I don't get it ...
[–]scrubius 1 point2 points3 points  (4 children)
This. So good.
[–]simonthelikeable 2 points3 points4 points  (3 children)
Huh? Why that?
[–]scrubius 4 points5 points6 points  (2 children)
Compression of files.
[–]turbulence96 3 points4 points5 points  (1 child)
Still don't get it :/
[–]I-Have-A-Headache 633 points634 points635 points  (11 children)
It's been 659 days since I've been stuck in this god forsaken story. I admit, on days I had the attention span to mull over this novel I promised to finish one New Years eons ago, I was dazed with booze or liquor. If you could die of loneliness, I'd be the one to tell you about it at the pearly gates. I guess when I first got here it was pretty amazing seeing Sterling, living, breathing, right off the page, exactly the way I saw him in my head, solve all these mysteries and win the heart of Aubrey over, it sparked something in me.. I had a new kindle for life and I was ready to start it over, no more drinking until I passed out, no more chain smoking, no more wallowing over Naomi, I was going to take ahold of my life and for a little while, I thought this was God's sign to me. I was so wrong.. If anything, this is what I get for fucking up everything, this is my hell after death; I probably died of alcohol poisoning to be honest.
After the story ended I lived my life in Sterling's apartment. He and Aubrey just never came back after the last words on the page were uttered, I'm guessing they're in the epilogue. Now the only people left in this entire town are the same, maybe, two dozen characters repeated. Just the same faces everywhere. It's gotten lonely and if I'm going to be stuck here.. At least I'll enjoy myself. Luckily three fourths of the characters are women, so I had a bit of variety when looking for a girl, but they all lacked something.. Charm, a solid personality, an opinion.. An interesting conversation was like asking for rain on the moon. I probably hear "Lovely weather we're having." After every other fucking sentence. Even their bodies lacked; on three occasions I had girls undressed and their bodies lacked that delicate curve you see on an actual woman, not some drunk idiot's retelling of a woman. They looked like rectangles with the middle pinched, breasts that looked way too perky, almost sitting right on top of the collar bone, and "An ass that looks like two basketballs sitting together." isn't as desirable as drunk me imagined. It's just so lonely, I've even resorted to the men.. But still the same old blank, hazy look. I've tried escaping, driving as far away as possible, but the roads always lead back to this shit hole. Hell, I've even tried ending it, but I wake up back in Sterling's bed with whatever mess that was suppose to be there cleaned up.
This is my hell for being so caught up in a dream that I shoved everything that actually mattered to the side. This is my hell for making her give up everything for my dream. This is my hell for shitting on that dream to do fuck-all and drink. This is my hell for hurting her when she wanted her life back. I'm ready to die, but the thing is.. I think I have and this is just my hell.
[–]Kitakk 124 points125 points126 points  (0 children)
I really like how self-contained the story feels, it makes for a good read in the short story format and also adds to the protagonist's sense of narrative claustrophobia, nicely done.
[–]Kcus_Spaz_Niarb 40 points41 points42 points  (0 children)
damn man...good story but...damn
[–]SaintPeter74 27 points28 points29 points  (1 child)
was like asking for rain on the moon
I love this line!
[–]muntoo 6 points7 points8 points  (1 child)
He should probably start writing a new novel with smart, sexy hot chicks.
[–]Kiefer0 4 points5 points6 points  (0 children)
Ahem, OP...
[–]deepcoma 5 points6 points7 points  (0 children)
I love it, absolutely love it to death.
[–]DjBorscht 4 points5 points6 points  (0 children)
There is no way this is your first prompt. Poetic and creative. I loved this. The cynicism and darkness was really something. Keep it up!
[–]DCarrier 9 points10 points11 points  (0 children)
You should put some kind of separator before that last line, so it doesn't look like part of the story. Or maybe he's just saying that his story was so badly written because it was his first writing prompt, and he hopes you enjoy it because now he's stuck in hell for eternity.
[–]phlegmbrulee 3 points4 points5 points  (0 children)
This is so good.
[–]shadowcentaur [score hidden]  (0 children)
I like the ironic hell for him, nice work
[–]AuntChiladas 110 points111 points112 points  (4 children)
Being stuck here reminds me of how shitty of a writer I am; I said it to myself so often, hunched over my oak desk, that I thought I believed it but I know now I never did. Not to this degree. I walk by fire hydrants I described as crimson and cringe at their color being off slightly enough that it irks me. The sidewalks I described as jagged and uneven piss me off now that I'm stuck walking them over and over, on repeat.
I remember people telling me they knew their destiny when they were young; "all my life, I've known I wanted to be a doctor" or "I've always wanted to work with animals" but you never know what total shit that is until you're really, truly stuck living in it. I wrote this. This melancholy, tiny off color world. I'm the reason it breathes. And it drolls on, endlessly repeating. The same dull, useless mailman who's fucking the neighbor and only exists to place the blame on Mrs. Jenkin's waves at me and I raise a hand at him in passing because I know I'm supposed to. I'm the passerby who seems to know a little too much.
Why did I have to make Sal's Diner have such awful coffee? It's the only place that stands in this town; I let myself in and sit at the counter. The waitress pushes the creamer towards me; I examine her for a moment. I was always good with women. At least how they looked. Supple, womanly curves and peach soft skin without the fuzz. The waitress is a gorgeous golden blonde, with sun-kissed skin and she is ripe enough to rip off of the tree. She catches me staring at her and winks, but my heart sinks. She's got two kids at home and a husband. I'm not the sort of man who cares about that thing (never was and why start now?) but she's terribly domestic. Wants to provide a good life for her family. Hot as she is, it beats me over the head. She can't be good in bed, not even in the world that I dreamed.
Dull. Dull, dull, dull.
The only remotely interesting woman in this town is the black haired one that sits in the background of Sal's, reading the paper inconspicuously, unaware it's from the day before. Every time I come here, just to look at her, she turns her eyes from me and leaves five minutes later. I would follow her, but I know what happens. She disappears. She's not supposed to come back until the next book. I have to turn and watch her go, because I'm stuck here. Today, she meets my eyes as she leaves and gives a smirk. I'm struck by it, because she's never done it before.
For a moment I question if I'd remembered it correctly, but I do. I remember every fucking word of the cursed novel I'm living in and that never happened. I get up and walk closer to her table and I am shocked by the black and white print.
The date has changed.
[–]Black_Belt_Troy 16 points17 points18 points  (0 children)
My favorite in the thread so far
[–]Bootheboy 7 points8 points9 points  (1 child)
Continue this! Dear jesus, please continue this!
[–]Mysterious_Nobody 7 points8 points9 points  (0 children)
It's like this could be a start of a Mystery Novel with supernatural elements on it.
[–]cinnamonfrecklelatte 13 points14 points15 points  (0 children)
I want to read more of this!!!!
[–]The-obvious-advice 53 points54 points55 points  (8 children)
I was going crazy trapped in my own novel. I'd always thought my world was engaging, interesting, with fully-developed leads who propelled the story forward with the momentum of their meaning-fraught actions. I still think that is true; every time I see my protagonist while I'm wandering through the world I created, he's brooding importantly, solving philosophical debates and terrorist plots with the same charm and dry wit I envisioned as being much less pretentious than it really was, and garnering attention from every female he encounters.
I wouldn't mind being stuck in this world, if it werent for my one spectacular fuck-up. I'm a background player here, so it's not very dangerous to me. having written the damn place into existence, I know which dive bars and corporate headquarters I should avoid if I don't fancy dying in firefights or explosions. It's not a horrible place to be, with enough pleasant parks and rain-soaked cityscapes to provide enjoyable and ironically contrasting backdrops to all the brooding. But I don't know why I made all the women here so fucking boring !
Maybe I thought a testosterone driven broodfest of a philosophical novel wouldn't need any women as a distraction for the grandiose plot, the political conspiracy, the overarching corruption that is the hallmark of every shitty redemption crime novel. Maybe I'm secretly a misogynist and maybe I just do a crap job relating to women and that's why every girl in this goddamn place will just give you a blank stare and go back to fawning off the man whose arm she is on or is too interested in her menial service job. I swear every fucking girl here is a secretary! I'd realised, trying to be clever and realistic, that the powerful men my protagonist would be communicating with- his ex police chief, the judges and lawyers and corrupt officials- those guys never answer the damn phone. They all have secretaries. Every fucking woman here, shes a secretary, or a bartender. A contrived plot device helping propel forward the puffed-up, stilted plot. With no interest in a shitty writer.
[–]lilbluehair 10 points11 points12 points  (3 children)
I like it, but it could have used more awareness on the author's part that all the powerful people in his plot are men. Not just that everyone has a secretary, but that he didn't have any female judges or lawyers or corrupt officials.
[–]nonsequitur_potato 22 points23 points24 points  (1 child)
I dunno, I kinda like it this way. The author wouldn't have made this realization on his own; when writing he wasn't looking for diversity. He was filling the typecast roles that his prejudices told him exist. It's only living inside the world, away from the plot, mingling with the spring cast, that he realizes the women he did put in the story were just filling the supporting roles behind the men.
[–]DdMDaniels 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
Well I doubt the writer realized he would be sucked inside the book, if he did this action filled scenario would suddenly become a lewd scenario with plenty of "diverse" female character who also happen to have "tons of depth"
[–]HerpthouaDerp 5 points6 points7 points  (0 children)
Eh. He's a fodder writer, and he already knows it and is more or less at peace with it.
[–]OnlyLoveNow 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
The best one
[–]DdMDaniels -4 points-3 points-2 points  (1 child)
misogynist
I have to question your use of this word, are you conflating the writer not being able to relate to women with hatred of women?
[–]CeruleanTresses [score hidden]  (0 children)
It's not a black-or-white thing. There's more nuance to misogyny than "do you or do you not actively despise women?" There's a whole spectrum of attitudes and actions that make life shittier for women than it needs to be.
The example in the story, where the author portrays women entirely in subservient roles because he implicitly associates leadership positions with men, is an excellent example of a more insidious brand of misogyny. (Insidious and, more importantly, harmful. You'd be kidding yourself if you denied that attitudes like that make it more difficult for women to advance professionally.)
[–]venustas 50 points51 points52 points  (1 child)
I had always had a talent for writing strong male characters. Even as I sit here in the coffee shop I modeled off of one I saw in New Orleans once, staring across the way at my creation, I have to admire that one talent of mine. Roger was a fantastic character.
He was witty, intelligent, sympathetic but still strong. When I wrote him, I think I was trying to emulate some form of James Dean, with the suave way he made everyone he spoke to feel important. He had hobbies, interests, favourite books. I think I'd even written him a detailed back story that never made it into the final draft of the novel. Too sad, my editor said.
I had written Roger as a tragic hero in this dark comedy. He was supposed to be flawed, and his fatal flaw was being too trusting. So of course, every other character in the novel I had written as a sleazeball.
Women gaining his trust, only to dash his hopes of a happy ending. His boss took advantage of him and made him work hours and hours. Right now, he was sitting with his daughter from a previous marriage, and she was trying to talk him out of money. Inevitably, he would give it to her. That's the kind of guy that Roger was.
But the sad part about Roger, for me at least, was that he cried out for love. He never found it in the novel- that was the whole point. It wasn't something I wrote in the cards for him. And so I made every potential suitor a horrible representation of what women could be. I was fresh off a break-up with my last girlfriend. To me, all women were monsters, barely hiding their fangs. So I gave Roger the same options.
Now, I had tried more than once to date these women. But the absolute worst part was one little line I had put in the third chapter, trying to differentiate the novel from my own life.
Every women I had ever written was straighter than an arrow. And I was the only lesbian.
[–]jinx_beans_86 6 points7 points8 points  (0 children)
I was hoping for a female author reply!
I like your story.
[–]drgmonkey 35 points36 points37 points  (4 children)
I thought I knew what love was.
Every time Angela would get angry with me, or complain when I left the toilet seat up, or insist on going out when I just wanted to stay in, I picked up my pen and took notes about what the perfect girl would be like. She could have everything that I loved in Angela without any of the hassle. This girl was Annie.
At first, it was just a stupid thing, a little diary written out of frustration. But when I lost my job, I started thinking more and more about what the perfect world would be like. How it could be so much better if there really was someone writing out how it all would happen. I believed that I knew.
Angela kept yelling at me to get a job. So Annie would tell me that she loved me no matter what, and that if we wanted to just sit around and watch TV, that was fine with her. Eventually, Angela left, and Annie was the only one that remained. So I threw myself into her. I gave her everything that I wanted. She was smart, obedient, loyal - and she loved me more than anything else in the world. I became obsessed. Every day it was a new outfit for Annie, a new day to walk around the park with her. And she loved to just stay in.
I never thought that I would hate to be stuck with her.
One day I woke up and she was real. Her freckles smiling at me, her hair dangling over my face as the light above my bed gave her a perfect halo. I was so happy. I was happy to see her, happy to be wherever I was. That happiness lasted... about a month.
You know, you never realize just how boring sitting in front of a TV all day is when you never have the chance to do it. At some point I decided I wanted to do something else - anything at all - but Annie wouldn't let me go outside. All she wanted to do was stay inside and watch TV. Maybe walk around the block, or to the park. When she decided to do that, it was a great relief from the daily grind of commercials and couch. But this happened maybe once every two weeks. Oh, I tried to go outside by myself. Maybe just head out to the bar every once in a while. But Annie wanted to stay in. And when I opened the door without Annie to accompany me, all that was there was pitch black nothing. I reached into it once, and I felt my arm disappear. It just wasn't connected to me anymore. I immediately recoiled in fear, imagining what would happen if all of me went into that blackness. I knew that there would be no turning back.
So I'm stuck. I'm stuck here with a boring woman who loves me more than anything. And now I know that love isn't enough. I need something more.
........................................................................................................
I don't know how long it's been. Years. Decades, maybe. I've destroyed everything in the apartment. The TV has been smashed. That was a mistake. At least the TV would give me new shows. Now there is nothing new at all. The couch is ripped up. All of the dishes are broken and on the floor, and everything has been pulled out of the fridge. Maddeningly, Annie just keeps cleaning things up and smiling at me.
Annie wasn't safe from my rage. I beat her. I beat her to a point where anything human would die. Her blood stained the walls, day after day, night after night, for a week. And she would always look up at me, smiling, saying that she loved me no matter what. How can you love someone no matter what? There has to be some line. The things that I've done to her... a real person would have left a long long time ago. But Annie isn't a real person. I can't respect her. I can't talk to her. I can't love her. But most of all I can't stand to be around her. All I can do now is destroy and destroy and watch her clean it up. It's the only entertainment I have left.
The blackness at the edge of our little world keeps calling to me. I tried shoving Annie into it, but to her it is simply a wall, unless she decides otherwise. I have thrown things at it. It is always a wall, always a wall unless I'm touching it. Recently I've entertained myself by reaching an arm through, or a leg, and enjoying the feeling of nothing. It's so different than anything else in this damn apartment. I wonder how much longer I can last.
.............................................................................................................
I woke up. A sickening sight fell upon my eyes. A face that had been jabbed repeatedly with a red sharpie. Greasy, lifeless hair that dangled towards me. A mouth twisted into a shape that was meant to mimic a smile. And the same damn light shining from behind.
"Goodbye, Annie," I said, nonchalantly pushing her off the side of the bed. I walked to the front door. My arm stopped hurting. My leg stopped hurting. And finally, my heart stopped.
[–]AliveThrouDeath 5 points6 points7 points  (0 children)
That was amazingly dark. Wow. Bravo.
[–]MarketSalami 8 points9 points10 points  (0 children)
Holy fucking shit.
[–]squashedbananas 2 points3 points4 points  (0 children)
Well. That was fucking creepy. Good job!
[–]jinx_beans_86 1 point2 points3 points  (0 children)
Holy shit. Wow. That is fucking dark and an amazing take on the prompt.
[–]keithb 90 points91 points92 points  (10 children)
I saw her and that “Richard” character in the breakfast bar. The one opposite the Raffles. Can't miss that red hair. Gwen-Hazel. I did well with you. Smart, loyal, lusty, gutsy, oh, you've got it all. My eternal pen-portrait of Ginny. And what virtues are left for anyone else? What was I thinking?
Here I am, surrounded by all these soft, snuggly zombies: educated but not smart, willing sex partners but not passionate, friendly but not sympathetic. They're keen enough to replenish the species, but what would be the point? Did I really think that this was what women were like? Did they all so fade away next to her?
1/6th g makes for a great push-up bra, yes indeed! But believe it or not the entertainment value of that has a short half life.
I wrote all those books with that gimmick, authors and their creations on an equal footing. Even made up a bit of polysyllabic gobbledegook for it—and now here I am! Who knows how? Not me, dammit. And I know what happens next and I know that they are, she is, leaving. I'm going to be stuck here. What happens after they leave? It can't be long now. I must not get tangled up in that fight! Why did I make these guys so trigger–happy? A polite society my foot!
What am I supposed to do now? Set up home with a cheerfully corrupt clip joint hostess?
I will never be lacking womanly company here in the Moon, and I'll be bored out of my mind with it every minute.
[–]underrealized 7 points8 points9 points  (9 children)
Tanstaafl!
[–]nosnivel 0 points1 point2 points  (5 children)
I saw that too. Made me smile.
[–]Thoguth 0 points1 point2 points  (4 children)
I missed it ... what did I miss?
[–]nosnivel 6 points7 points8 points  (3 children)
Total Heinlein. See "The Cat Who Walks Through Walls" for one.
[–]ewbrower 1 point2 points3 points  (2 children)
"The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress"
[–]ColourTheStars 1 point2 points3 points  (1 child)
I think it comes up in a few of his books.
[–]nosnivel 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
Hazel Stone is in three books - the two cited above plus "The Rolling Stones." Yes, I looked it up.
eta - Apparently four - I forgot "The Number of the Beast."
[–]keithb -1 points0 points1 point  (2 children)
Ain't that the truth.
[–]underrealized 0 points1 point2 points  (1 child)
But... Heinlein could just write himself another world... like in "The Number of the Beast"
[–]keithb 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
He could, and he knows that, but without a Burroughs Irrelevant drive how would he get there?
[–]jrherndz 27 points28 points29 points  (0 children)
The king raised his hands and proclaimed, "As a reward for saving the kingdom, I give you my daughter's hand in marriage. Come and claim your prize, good, sir knight. The crowd roared. With the hero potion I drank that granted me everlasting life, I would now rule this kingdom forever.
It turns out that forever is a lot longer than I thought.
Later, we had sat in the royal bedroom, together. "So, tell me a little about yourself." "What do you mean?" She said, sweetly. I'm glad I wrote her perfume to be intoxicating. "Well, we're going to be married and I guess I don't know anything about you except for what we've done together," I mused.
"Well..umm..I got kidnapped by a dragon." She said, matter-of-factly.
"I know, I came after you. That's where we first met."
"Right, you killed the dragon when none of the other knights could, even though you were just a peasant. And when I saw you I was really attracted to you."
I chuckled. "Well I did save you. I'm the hero."
"Yeah" she said, I really grateful not to be eaten or whatever but it was a little weird because you would think that being kidnapped, held prisoner in a cave and forced to wear a metal bikini by a dragon would be really traumatizing but I really just wanted to screw you. Even though you were a complete stranger covered in dragon blood with a big, scary, flaming sword, I was really turned on. Also how does a dragon communicate that I had to wear a bikini? Is that a dragon cultural thing or a personal preference? I'm not racist. I just don't remember. Isn't that weird?"
I changed the subject, quickly. "What are your hobbies, when you're not in danger?" I said.
"Well, everyone agrees that I'm the most beautiful woman in the 8 kingdoms." She was. "And princes come from everywhere to try to marry me. They fight and do brave stuff to impress me but I'm not really into fighting guys, except you apparently."
"You are the most beautiful woman I can imagine, but all that stuff happened to you. What do you do on your own when you have a choice?"
She shrugged. "There's a rumor that an evil wizard is plotting to kidnap me for his dastardly plan, but no one knows when that is supposed to happen."
"I know. I never should have promised book 2 would be out be next summer. Writing is a complicated process that can't be rushed!" She gave me a blank stare. "Never mind. Well, if you don't have a personality, I guess all we have left is sex, right?"
"No, I don't really think so. I would have been all over you in the middle of all the danger and stuff, but ever since we got back, it's like no one even thought about my feelings. My father has been decreeing that "I shall marry" since I hit puberty. I didn't listen then and I don't really want to now. Pretty much the only things I identify by are "Being pretty", "Not wanting to get married when I was at home (here)" and "being turned on when we were in mortal danger." I don't think that is a very good basis for a relationship."
I stood up. "I can't believe that I'm getting rejected by my own creation." To myself, but out loud, I said "Well, I'm immortal. I guess I'll try the other women in the kingdom. I've got time."
"What other women?" She said with a perplexed expression.
[–]pendingalcoholic 12 points13 points14 points  (0 children)
This story was never anything serious. My inspiration escaped me after all of nine pages, all sloppily written. My life is a loop now. A measly three hours of setting the scene to a story I had no intention of finishing.
I had at first hoped to intervene in the protagonist's beginning mishap. He was to spend the rest of the novel fighting his way out their captivity, all while maintaining some small shred of his original humanity. But no matter how I try, he always falls for them. It is his wont and now I share it.
We are partners in humiliation and pain, left to suffer at the whims of three modern day sirens. Our captors could only be described as walking, talking trash. I did create them to be moderately attractive, sure, but entirely monstrous, almost diabolical in their motives. Exploring my fantasies was all I ever intended. I did not expect to live them.
They have me and my protagonist tied together in the sixty-nine position. All I do is wait for the loop to reset. I hadn't written in the sex yet. If I had gotten to it, my protagonist would have played a game of psychological cat and mouse with the younger, more awkward and runty of our captors. It would have led to a month or so of regular visits of a conjugal and semi consensual nature. If only I made one of these girls a little sweeter or a bit more human. Instead they are foul and predictable.
The worst part of it all? Having my head in another guys crotch is the most intimate interaction I've had with another person in months.
[–]MoreThanTwice 7 points8 points9 points  (0 children)
This was all very surreal. Down to the very last detail, my book had come to life.
"Would you like some tea?" Asked the beautiful maid, with sweet red lips and blonde curly hair.
"No thank you, Angel." I replied in wonder.
"Would you like some tea?" Asked the beautiful maid, with sweet red lips and blonde curly hair.
"I said no thank you, Angela. Please, be on your way." I said with growing suspicion.
"Would you like some tea?" Asked the beautiful maid, with sweet red lips and blonde curly hair.
"Jump out a window, Angela." I said, with curiosity.
"Would you like some tea?" Asked the beautiful maid, with sweet red lips and blond curly hair.
"Shit." I mumbled. I hadn't given her any other lines. I don't even like tea.
Moving towards the door, she repeated the line twice more. Alas, when I got to the door, there was but a brick wall behind it. Written there was a note;
FINISH THE SCENE
Damn! I had forgotten Mr. SlightlyGrey's lines!
"Would you like some tea?" Asked the beautiful maid, with sweet red lips and blonde curly hair.
"Shut up baby, I gotta remember the lines."
Surely I can do this, I wrote this when I wasn't very good and still stuck to cliche stories. It was a romance novel, if I remember correctly. "50 Structures of Grey's Anatomy" was the name. She didn't have any other lines, Mr. SlightlyGrey must've sent those sweet, red lips off...
"No thank you, Angela. I've already had a sip of wine. Please, go off and treat yourself nicely." I told her in my sexiest voice, while slipping her a 50 dollar bill.
She left. Probably for the better, my hand moved straight through her. Even if I tried I couldn't...
"Hello, Mr. SlightlyGrey. Y-You wanted to see me?" Said a perky voice of what was probably a red head.
"Yes. Come right in."
"Oh goodness! Oh Gosh! Thank you for having me up here, sir. I wanted to talk to you for a news paper section!"
Here is where things got complicated; I don't remember any of this.
"Oh goodness! Oh Gosh! Thank you for having me up here, sir. I wanted to talk to you for a news paper section!"
I attempt to leave again, but there is still a wall preventing me. This time, the note read;
CHECK THE DRAWER
Curious, I move over to the drawer and open it up.
"Oh goodness! Oh Gosh! Thank you for having me up here, sir. I wanted to talk to you for a news paper section!"
Inside, there was nothing save for a gun and a note.
YOU CAN END THIS ALL. MAYBE YOU'LL WAKE UP. MAYBE YOU'LL DIE.
"Oh goodness! Oh Gosh! Thank you for having me up here, sir. I wanted to talk to you for a news paper section!"
YOU MOST CERTAINLY WON'T LISTEN TO THIS FOR ETERNITY.
This was enticing, even I knew that this scene was cringey, and having to play through it would be hell. Checking the back, I found more writing.
"Oh goodness! Oh Gosh! Thank you for having me up here, sir. I wanted to talk to you for a news paper section!"
CHECK THE DRAWER UNDERNEATH THIS ONE
Again, I open the drawer below. Inside were two bullets. Surely, this must be a joke. My hand passed through the maid, how would a bullet kill this image that stands before me?
"Oh goodness! Oh Gosh! Thank you for having me up here, sir. I wanted to talk to you for a news paper section!"
MAYBE THE BULLET IS A PART OF THIS. MAYBE THE BULLET CAN KILL IT.
It has a point. I load the gun, with both bullets.
"Oh goodness! Oh Gosh! Thank you for having me up here, sir. I wanted to talk to you for a news paper section!"
"Don't worry, baby. It'll only last a second."
I shot the gun, the bullet went through her eyes.
"Oh goodness! Oh Gosh! Thank you for having me up here, sir. I wanted to talk to you for a news paper section!"
Of course. I get on both knees, slumping down both my buttocks and my head, and I pull the trigger. Everything goes black.
"Would you like some tea?" Asked the beautiful maid, with sweet red lips and blonde curly hair.
[–]2rio2 10 points11 points12 points  (1 child)
Charles hated going outside.
First there was the streets, full of sputtering cards listlessly driving from one place to the next with phantom drivers inside. Then there was the weather, which was nice generally but tended to turn grey and stormy when he was a foul mood. And he was in a foul mood often because of the women that inhabited this half-assed world he had created.
First there was Jackie. He was still not sure how that went wrong. She was the spunky heroine to his story, the smart, creative, but vulnerable match for his lead character. Detective Raul Cortez had bolted to the edge of the pages and the greylands unknown rather than deal with her, and Charles wished he had the courage to do the same.
It wasn't that she was unbearable, per say. Take her out to dinner and she would banter and spit out one liners like no other. It was in the smaller, quieter moments she would creep him would. Charles once asked what her favorite movie was, and she didn't know. He asked about her life growing up, and other than one tragic event he had written in as a tragic backstory there was none. No hobbies, no passions, nothing at all. Sometimes he would leave the bathroom and watch her, hidden, from the back of the busy restaurant. She would sit there, doing nothing, being nothing. He had not written any more into her than as a functional tool to propel Raul's adventures. Then Charles would return and her eyes would light up with purpose again, the vacant look gone, the perfect trophy lead yet again.
Others was worse. His femme fatal Laura Blackwood was a bitchy artist trope, passionately seducing him one moment and flinging things in her apartment at him during one of her mad fits. There was no level with her, it was always one extreme or the other. Jill Noor was Raul's spunky ex girlfriend, a maniac pill addled adventurephile who dressed colorfully, acted spontaneously, and often forgot his name. Even Raul's sister Marissa, written to be his sensible DA and law abiding half was a mopey shell shocked mess. He had forgotten he had her assaulted and raped 2/3 of the way through the story to propel Raul to the climax.
Charles finally settled on sleeping with Gloria Lawrence, Raul's sweet and homely, though buxom, administrative assistant. She was the most rounded he had written to a female character in the story, ironically, he soon realized, because she was basically a man. She liked to drink, go to games, rarely shopped or complained or had unexpected mood swings of any sort. That went well for a while, until her mechanic husband George had found out about it and was sent into a violent rage, nearly killing Charles. Charles had not written him with anger issues, but he supposed sleeping with any man's wife would be enough to set him off.
So Charles preferred to stay in the safety of his own home, which had once been Raul's. The food was always stocked with booze and food, and although there was no TV and the internet had nothing on it he had plenty of time to write. He thought a sequel to Raul's story would be good. Maybe a war novel where he wouldn't have to deal with any women at all.
[–]lilbluehair 12 points13 points14 points  (0 children)
Maybe a war novel where he wouldn't have to deal with any women at all.
Awwww man, the author didn't learn the right lesson :(
[–]strangely-wise 10 points11 points12 points  (2 children)
I am trapped in my own book. The details of how aren't important. Well, they are, just not right now. Currently, I'm being cornered in the back of a gritty alley by my own creation.
As I stared down the gun barrel of my plot-device thug, stings of betrayal skittered through my violently beating heart. In the back on my mind was a whisper of 'My son, how could you?' Now, I know that this stock character thug wasn't really my son, but the sentiment was the same.
A muted thwip of a silenced gun twanged through the alley and just as I'd known would happen, the thug drops to the ground, shot in the heart, and my protagonist's savior/love interest Sara, a buxom vigilante gunslinger and sharpshooter borne of my obsessions with Lara Croft, Catwoman, and action movies with guns, leaps down from the roof. Through the magic of my imagination and words, her ankles and legs did not break, and now I realized how physically impossible that should have been. I mentally noted that if I ever got a chance to edit this book, I'll instead have her drop from a convenient ladder or something to make sure my book was more realistic.
"Come." Was her one-line response. Now, my protagonist at this point would be marveling in hero-worship, but I was marveling at how...well...inhuman Sara looked. I made Sara up as my own personal fantasy, such is my right and liberty as her creator. Big perky boobs, pert booty, tanned, gorgeous hair, long neck, skinny legs for miles, dainty feet, large eyes, plump lips, and a petite nose.
She looked like an alien. Or an oddly stretched human that had a bad run-in with an inexperienced Photoshop user. Her eyes were large, but buggishley so. Like a fly. The nose was so small that it looked like an isosceles triangle pyramid cut-out just taped on. Think Michael Jackson. And her lips were reminiscent of an botched lip injection looking more like a blow-up doll than a woman's. All of this face composition was precariously balanced on a neck that anatomically shouldn't have been able to the head with its lack of muscle mass. If she turned her head to sharply, she would break her own neck.
My attention drifted further down and I could feel my face twisting into a grimace. I'd seen that click-bait news article shared on Facebook of the woman with size KKK boobs. I remember how I thought it looked like two basketballs unflatteringly glued to the woman's chest. Well, that's what Sara had. Preferring not to linger on this glaringly disproportionate part of her composition, I looked at her waist, and asked myself, 'Where's her rib cage? Where does she put her internal organs?' and then as I looked further down, I thought 'I could totally set a drink on her butt and it would stay there.' for her derriere was unnaturally jutting out from the base of her spine like a shelf.
And growing out from those large globules were long and thin toothpick-like legs. As I looked at them, I was reminded of those tall aliens from Star Wars with what her legs looked like. Sara was a freak, and inside my fear of being a bad writer and creator reared it's ugly head and began ripping my confidence to shreds. How could I have created such an inaccurate and non-realistic character?
So as I was shoved into Sara's utility van filled with weapons, I curled myself up into a fetal position and took the half hour drive to her HQ to cry silently and piece my confidence back together. 'Okay,' I thought. 'I can fix her looks later, but she at least has to have a decent personality.'
I waited patiently as Sara exited her car and tugged me out to follow her. It was a little rude, but I made her to be a determined person, so it fit, I figured. Entering the abandoned warehouse, I cringed as I saw my two other female characters, Brooke and Stacy, displaying that same proportions and distortions as Sara did. As I watched them walk, I got an icky feeling similar to the same one I got watching spiders or a praying mantis scuttle across the floor.
"Hey Sweetcheeks!" Stacy greeted, immediately coming off as way too peppy... and just a little on the screechy side. I loathed having to hear that through the rest of his book.
"New meat?" Brooke purred. I know I wrote it that way, for her to be the seductress, and Stacy to be the cheerful BFF tech chick. But... purring just sounded weird, especially while talking. It actually sounded like Brooke was angry and was saying those words through clenched teeth and possibly a Darth Vader mask.
"Yes. Found him downtown. I start training tomorrow." Sara barked out. Dread filled my stomach once-again. I knew what was going to happen. She would be my drill sergeant, would yell at me and call me weak. Now, my original protagonist, someone I had apparently replaced in this weird magical and terrible accident or spell, was athletic and had an endearingly sarcastic humor and dry wit.
Me? I didn't have that good-humor. I imagined that humor while I was comfortably lounging at my desk surrounded by an embarrassing amount of caffeine, and I was also notoriously lazy. I wrote my own excuse note from PE because I hated physical activity so much. Day one I will be sobbing on the ground and be loathing this insectian creation of mine as she mentally, and physically, abused me.
I am being forced to live in the existence of my own writing. My own personal Hell.
[–]TotallyNotDumb 3 points4 points5 points  (1 child)
I could see this being a hilarious show.
[–]strangely-wise 3 points4 points5 points  (0 children)
Time to break out the bad CGI and Photoshop.
[–]ThePaisleyChair 4 points5 points6 points  (0 children)
I've never written here before, but I liked the prompt so here's a good-old fashioned try.
She came to me like a dream. She was sitting alone at the end of a smoky bar, with a half empty wine glass and a mysterious smile. I didn't realize where I was at first--all bars look the same after a certain time of night--but as soon as our eyes met, I knew, I just knew I had to have her.
A few drinks later and she was clinging to my hand as we made our way out of the bar. By the end of the taxi ride, her hand was sliding up and down my thigh, a tantalizing taste of the wild night ahead.
God, she was intoxicating. I fucked her on each and every surface in her apartment. When morning rolled around, the sunlight revealed a world changed for me. It wasn't until she called me Jackson that everything finally clicked. I was living in a half-finished novel from long ago and the woman of my dreams was the leading lady.
Marie was exactly as I had imagined her--tall and blonde, with luscious tits and a tight ass. She had one of those quirky, creative jobs all imaginary women seem to have--a cupcake baker specializing in vegetable flavors or a high end event planner who seems to spend more of her days shopping than working. Did it really matter what she did for a living?
The first few weeks were a blaze of passion and booze. I was living in a fantasy--a good paying job and a hot-bodied wife who was crazy about me. I woke up to a perfect world, one I had only imagined, each and every morning.
It was a bit of a shock, then, when I first realized how boring it all was.
I took Marie out for a seafood dinner to celebrate the anniversary of an event I never actually lived through. She couldn't decide between the salmon or the tuna and she asked me to pick for her. As I gave our order to the waitress, I realized that it was the fourth time that week that I had chosen her food for her.
Dinner that night was torture as I slowly realized that everything she said was a bland echo of my own words. There wasn't an original thought in that pretty head.
I faked indigestion and slept on the couch that night. Well, I stayed on the couch that night; I didn't do much sleeping. I didn't sleep well for several nights after that.
Finally, after a week of sleep deprivation and half-hearted conversations, I tried to go back to that same bar--tried to find a way out. But there was nothing there. The bar was gone. My old apartment was gone. I tried calling up my folks, but nobody answered. Nobody knew me from my old life. All I had was the woman I had written into existence.
Defeated, I went home to Marie. I opened the bedroom door to find her sitting there, staring blankly out the window. When she heard me, she turned her head robotically.
"Jackson!" Her entire face changed from a waxy and still to lively and beaming.
All my life, I had dreamed of a girl whose entire world revolved around me, a girl who wanted nothing more than my company. And Marie was exactly as I had imagined her.
[–]ka_like_the_wind 8 points9 points10 points  (0 children)
When I first woke up on the boat I had a bit of a panic attack. In fact that may be an understatement, but my screaming fits were quickly remedied by a stay in the brig and repeated "aggressive cognitive therapy" sessions with the ships Medical Officer. After all, when you are on what seems to be the last ship on Earth after a global nuclear Fallout every man's life and abilities were of extreme value.
I do think I was somewhat justified in my brief psychotic break. I mean, I had often dreamed of the characters in my story, but they had never been so vivid in my dreams, or even in my waking hours when I was writing them. Also the dreams usually lasted one night as opposed to days on end. Once I had calmed down, and Ensign John Burroughs was allowed to return to his... I should say, my duties, I was amazed at how the crew of the USS George Washington that I had conjured up were so full of life. They made choices that I thought they would make, and behaved the way I expected them to. This was indispensable in those first few weeks of getting my bearings and making sure I knew what I was doing around the ship. I knew that I could go to Skip Harrison when I forgot how something was supposed to work because that is what John did in the book. Naturally, Skip would make sure no one was watching and grunt out an explanation and cuff me behind the ears before sending me back to work. When I got out of the brig Colin "cookie" McAffrey gave me a second ration at dinner and asked me how I was doing because I was like the son he never had. I felt like I was in some kind of fucked up hallucination for a long time, but slowly I began to get used to it. I started to feel the rhythm of life on the submarine, and I even started to get used to the cramped hallways and never seeing the sun or breathing fresh air. I actually started to enjoy living in the world I had created, until I got lonely.
Back in my former life I had just gotten out of a horrible relationship, and maybe that had something to do with my choice of setting. I was pissed at women as a whole so I decided to write a story about men. Brave men facing the end of the world with nothing but their wits and the will to survive, but dammit why did I have to choose the cold war? I could have set it in 2015 and made North Korea the villain instead of the USSR, then I could have had some women officers and even enlisted women on the ship. That could have made for some interesting sexual tensions and romantic subplots. Nope, I had to choose the 80's. I could have at least had a female stowaway maybe. Then I would at have a chance at something happening, I mean I was the main character now for crying out loud. Nope I had to go with a underwater metal tube filled with seamen. Pun intended.
Things got worse as quickly as they had gotten better. After 4 months on the ship not only were our supplies running low, but our morale had hit rock bottom. I hadn't even thought this far ahead in my outlines yet, and I clearly didn't anticipate the kind of psychological issues my characters would have to face dealing with a completely doomed world outside the submarine. Things were looking bad, and I had even sunk so low as to start staring at my razorblades a little too long when I went to shave. One night I figured I had nothing left to lose, and I decided to put pen to paper again. Writing had helped me through some tough times in the past and I figured it would at least help me pass the time a bit. I wrote a very lyrical short story about a man having a flying dream. He soared through the sky, looking down on the land and the sea as he criss-crossed through the clouds, never touching down and eventually rising up into space before he disappeared. It actually helped a little, and I fell asleep quicker that night than I had in quite a while. Then something amazing happened.
That night I had the exact dream I had written about! I was flying just like the man, seeing everything I had described. I soared up out of the atmosphere then winked out of existence, and when I woke up I knew that this had changed everything. I immediately set to work. I got up hours before my duties started and began writing frantically. It started out as a few experiments, things like a trip to the surface to survey some coastline, or a minor leak in the air tanks that was easily patched up. Everything came to pass just as I had written it, so I knew that my plan would work. It had to.
I started writing about new characters, in a fallout shelter. I placed them in Australia since I knew we were close to that continent after having spent months aimlessly wandering around the ocean. I populated it with characters, an old priest that kept the people's hopes alive, a crooked former government official who tried to seize power in the makeshift society of the shelter, and most importantly a girl. She was amazing. She was a schoolteacher before the bombs fell, and she was intrepid, brave, and intelligent. She rallied the people against the government stooge, and convinced them to allow her to lead an expedition using radiation suits, and the few oxygen tanks they had to try and find some communication equipment. She succeeded of course, though they encountered dangers along the way (I couldn't help but let a little of my flair for the dramatic shine through, even though my writing was entirely self-serving at this point). They brought back a short-wave radio, and started broadcasting which led to the best day of my life so far.
The day after I finished writing the captain came on the PA system. "Boys I have some exciting news. I know we have all been feeling low with no kind of mission to work towards, but all that is about to change. We received a short-wave transmission today informing us that there are survivors on the mainland of the Australian continent. We do not know much about their situation, but we do have a general idea of their coordinates." At this a cheer from the crew echoed around the tunnels of the ship. "We are planning a recon and possible rescue mission, and we are going to need a number of volunteers. It will be dangerous, and many of you may not make it to the location of the survivors, much less make it back, but this is the best chance we have had of restoring some kind of order to this world that god has forsaken. We will take volunteers first, and conscript other units as necessary. If you are brave and committed enough, come to the mess hall immediately for evaluation and briefing. That is all."
I took one look at my bunkmate, and ran for the mess hall as quickly as I could. I felt better than I had in months. I finally had a purpose again, and I felt like I could do anything. I decided I wouldn't write anything else about this story, no my imagination had gotten me in deep enough. Now it was time to get myself back out. But I wasn't worried. I was already in love with the girl I had created and I was the main character of my own story. How could I lose!
[–]HouseCatInfinity 9 points10 points11 points  (0 children)
“So you...you like...your job.” Her creator nodded slowly, clinging to every word, as if one key word would fall out of his mouth and splash into a pool of interest. Or something. Anything. Please. His old creative writing professor rolled in his grave. In fact, he rolled so hard he smashed his coffin and was rolling in other graves. Damn.
She nodded. “Of course. I’ve been editing since I was…” Her words died in the sea of background clinking and chatter as she consulted her backstory. At the very least, he could admire the soft ambience of a dimly-lit restaurant that secret-millionaire Chris Kingsworth would appear at. Hm. So the MFA wasn't totally useless. Nice.
Mediocrity rushed back in a disappointing wave when she could only draw out, “I have a degree in journalism. I like editing. Splash! is a good place to work.”
Jack nibbled on his bread. Well, their bread, not his. Flecked with grains and sodden with butter, it--no, no, focus. Come on. It couldn't be too hard. He won the "1992 Most Promising Writer" award in college, for crying out loud.
“But you must like other things, too,” he said. “Splash! isn’t your only activity.”
“I like working.”
“Yeah I, I got that, but--”
“I like being independent.”
“Wh...what?”
“Me. I like being independent,” she said. “Like I like doing things on my own.”
Jack blinked. His eyes, drilling deep into the bite mark of his bread, struggled not to rehash the the patterns in the art-deco dining room.
“Stop using 'like' a lot. You're educated. --Anyway. So you like doing things on your own,” he said, nodding slowly, turning the starched napkin over in his hands. “Like what do you do on your own?”
She shrugged. “Like--oops, sorry--independent things, you know. I do laundry. Chris came into the laundromat the other day and he was asking about--”
“I know what he asked,” the author snapped.
“I enjoy being independent,” she said.
“I know--”
“--so why does bad-boy Chris make me feel as though I'm risking it all?”
Jack was trying not to be painfully aware that that quote was put in specifically for the back cover.
“Let’s go back to your interests again,” said Jack, placing the napkin back on the table. It morphed and shifted back into the neat little triangle as it crawled back over the plate. “You like writing. You like editing.”
“And Chris,” she added.
“No, you don’t like Chris until he shows up at your hospital bed,” Jack corrected. The female nodded, her still frame unnerving. “Slouch just a little bit for me--no, that’s too much. --Nevermind, that’s not attractive enough.--What do you like doing?”
“I like...my family?” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. Jack shrugged, and she flashed a smile at his apathetic encouragement. “Yeah. Family is important. I like rainy days. I like reading. --Are those 'likes' okay?"
“But what do you like that’s relevant to the book?”
She stared at him.
“Okay. We can figure it out as we go, no problem. And your personality? What do you-- hi, sorry, excuse me, I know you want to take our orders but you’re not supposed to come in until page seventy-two. No, page seventy-two. Thanks. --But I would like a whiskey! Please…--Anyway, sorry, technical detail, I’ll fix it. What are you like?”
“I’m in--”
“Don’t say ‘independent’.”
“Sorry.”
“What else?”
“I’m hesitant to fall in love,” she said. “I mean, I really wanna--want to--fall in love deep down but I don’t want to fall in love because--” Once again, her stare melted into blank contemplation. She blinked and said with a flick of a hand gesture, “I don’t want to fall in love. I’m busy being a successful independent woman. I don’t need a man.”
“Any other traits?”
“I’m stubborn,” she added quickly, practicing her resigned pout that would eventually be the turning point for Chris. “I enjoy being alone...but I’m obviously not a loner freak and know how to socialize properly because that would make me unattractive. I am witty though. --Ooh, I hate spaghetti! And I don’t like bad boys--”
“--Yes, excellent--”
“--so why does bad boy Chris make me--”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Okay.”
“Great, so this is great,” he said, looking down at his list. “You’re an editor with a degree in journalism, like your family, reading, being witty, you’re independent, rainy days, yadda yadda. Great. All great.” Jack jotted a few notes, tossing the roll back into the bread basket. “I think we’re done here.”
She perked, eyes excited. “So I’m ready for the book series now?”
“Book series?” Jack pushed in his chair and frowned. “What book series? This is generic romance!"
“Wait, but...what?”
“I mean come on, you didn’t think you’d make it into my big project, did you? A man’s gotta eat while working on the next American classic, after all.” Jack clapped. “Places, everyone! We’re picking up on page sixty-seven, scene fourteen, Chris comes walks in after--” His head snapped to her. “What’s your name?”
Her voice, shriveled and broken, murmured, “Delilah.”
“Mmm, no. --he walks in after Lily’s stood up. Alright? Everyone got that? Okay, and we’re writing in three, two, one--”
[–]RollingInTheD 4 points5 points6 points  (0 children)
A little bit late to the party but I really liked the prompt so here goes
She was tall, pale, slender. Dark hair tumbled and cascaded in curls down to her shoulders and bounced off them as she walked like spray of a beautiful, pitch-black waterfall. As she made her way elegantly across the hall, the slit in her flowing black dress reared up to reveal a milky white thigh that went on for days.
Her gaze swayed and as if time slowed my eyes met hers and were immediately pierced by their deep green lustre. Dark mascara, long lashes and a perfectly applied powerful red lipstick that drew the gaze of every man in the room; making them wonder, imagine, dream, desire. The barest hint of a curl crept into the corner of that red wonder as she locked eyes on me, meeting my gaze with a look that could launch, sink and salvage a thousand ships. Who knows what thoughts, what fantasies lay behind that look?
I did. I knew exactly what she wanted - how her air of sultry seduction and grace was a mere varnish to the feelings of deep hopelessness and despair that had pervaded every inch of her life for so long. I knew how much she needed me to love her, to need her and fall hopelessly for her so I would save her from her crippling debt to the mob. How she planned to use me hunt down and apprehend a dozen or more two-bit low lives just so she could sell me out to the big boss and settle her score. How despite her best efforts not to, she would fall deeply, endlessly, madly in love with me over the course of a hundred pages or so - right up until I gave up on her and the whole charade. Before I gave up on the story, before I gave it an ending.
She didn't say anything to me as she passed through the hall, faceless heads turning to follow her as she does. If I look anywhere but at her, it's like squinting hard - I can see that the people are there, and that they watch her with awe, but they have no features. Just a blur. She doesn't say anything to me until the next chapter, when I find her outside the theatre being accosted by - shit, some goon, I didn't bother with a name. I just give serve him a beat down and tell him to scram. Maybe I'll let her get beaten up this time, I think to myself. Wouldn't that be a laugh.
But that's not how it worked here - wherever "here" really was. I suppose I'm asking that on both a metaphysical sense, as I had no clue how I had become part of my story, and in a literal sense, as I had never actually decided if I wanted the story to take place in London or Paris. Long ago I tried convincing myself it was Paris to see if something - anything - would change, but to no avail.
She had gone now - on to the next chapter, with me soon to follow her out of the building. I could feel myself drawn to her, physically unable to stay put any longer. I walked toward the exit before the whining set in. It was a slight but high pitched noise, like my ears were ringing, that grew louder and louder until it was overwhelming the more I strayed from my story. Accompanying it would be a feeling of lightness, as if my body was evaporating, and the fading of my surroundings until all that was left was inky black void. And the pain - a sharp, burning pain in my chest growing hotter as everything else falls away. Then I wake up in my office chair, rain pattering at the window, the smell of smoke hanging in the air and a cigarette smouldering its way through my favourite shirt.
I relented to the roaring of the abyss and followed the lady. The lady. Don't get me started. I sighed and rubbed at my heavy eyes as I prepared for the next scene. Why - why did I write such a stupid, bland character. So... so clichéd. A glamorous femme fatale with a penchant for danger and a passion for rugged detectives. Ms. Tree. I gave a half hearted snort. Miss Tree. Har har. Boy I thought I was so clever, didn't I? I hadn't even worked out what her real name was going to be. Years back I begun calling her The Bitch, but it quickly lost its humour. When your character only responds to the lines you told them to, and the consequence of not following the script is destruction and then more script, it sort of brings down the mood of any of countless jokes I'd made to try and stay sane. Though I knew my sanity had already long since waned and broke. I wasn't the man I used to be. I was "Shady" Samuel Stone, tough as nails private dick and notorious womaniser, quick to anger but with a heart of gold.
By self-proclaimed title only, of course. In this story I - I mean, Shady Sam, has eyes for only one. And that one was currently being mugged outside the theatre. Shady Sam, I reminisced. What a joke. I don't even remember who I... And I had to stop myself, before I continued that line of thought. Falling in to that awful cycle of pain and literal self-destruction for another decade would probably break what was left of my mind for good. Instead I stuck to the script - I pushed on out through the wooden doors out in to the cold night and turned immediately left in to the alley.
"Alright punk, let go of the lady or I'll..."
But there was no punk. No lady. Flames, ash and ember licked their was up the alley as the pavement, the walls, the world caught ablaze. I turned to run instinctively and was met by a world on fire. Scenes from Sam's life were twisting, spiralling in front of me as the city I once built on paper was consumed by the fire. Sam's office, the abandoned warehouse, the pier where a half-drowned Sam shared his first passionate kiss with Miss Tree. I stood upon the pavement, now an island amidst a sea of raging fire. Alice, I suddenly thought. That was going to be her name. Alice.
And Alice was in front of me. No longer was she the same tired cliché of a character I had known for so long. Her hair danced and sung - it was blonde, and then brown, and then gone altogether. She was tall, short, a flickering form. Her warmth drew me in and at once I knew passion again. She was fire incarnate, and I burned for her.
[–]Idle_Redditing 3 points4 points5 points  (1 child)
I'm trapped in my own book!?
I should have written in a legion of hot chicks who are all completely devoted to me and all want me.
edit. Or hot guys if that's his orientation.
[–]101Mage 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
I'm pretty sure this is the "wink wink" of OP's post...Interesting is interesting, regardless of gender, so what else could she possible mean?
[–]Vio_ 2 points3 points4 points  (0 children)
"This is our happily ever after."
She was right, of course. How could I deny it? She was everything I ever wanted- funny, warm, quirky, pretty, smart.
The funeral was last week. Forever last week. The great climax of the story where we buried her father. The last tie to a tragic story about alcoholism and dysfunctional families.
I'd actually sold it, a failed novel that got piecemealed down to novella then to short story. Scenes and dialogue and flashbacks all taken out to tighten the plot, make it more sellable. Some I'd missed, the great vacation to Fargo, the eleventh birthday where the cake represented my budding realization that things were wrong with her family- our lives two paralleled and yet so different.
Through it all, the loss of those words and memories, we stayed true to each other. I, to her, she to me. Always to me. Even as I struck out more of her life from the story- bedtimes at 830, church on Saturdays instead of Sundays, girlscouts, three friends until all that was left was her family and her. A super tight domestic drama and love.
And the funeral took care of that.
Someone finally bought it.
Not the New Yorker or Vanity or the one of the big names. No, this was like the Denver-Toledo Press. Still it counted. I was a published author even for a story that wasn't one-fourth of what it was.
The feedback was great. Everyone loved her for the most part. That not quite Pollyanna, not quite Wednesday Adams archetype. The kind of girl who got a perfect tattoo.
But it's just.
We made it. Survived the fire, the endless conversations of leaving and never getting out, the promises.
But when I ask her about those other things. The bigger picture stuff. It's just not there. Her aunts, her friends, the cousins, the support system that wasn't me, people who I only had small access to, they just didn't make it to print. She says she understands. She's always forgiving, but not quite forgetting. Those memories were just someone else, she explained away. Not her. Refused to mourn something that never existed.
I just.... it's not that I don't like her. She's great and perfect. I just maybe... need to move on? Maybe write about her second cousin. The one who saw things differently. Went to community college, married her second cousin, got it annulled (not because they were cousins). She seems great. The kind of woman you could write a novel around. Feisty, but not bitchy. Her own great tragedy revolving around a small town being claustrophobic. It'll just be.... a better story. I know it. I can see it. I can see her in the town we grew up in. I totally know this town, how she moved in when I was six.
But I can't live this story.
I'm.... kinda stuck with her after the fire. It's still a week later, and it's our happily ever after. She's just.... there beside me.
[–]tuesdaysaretits 1 point2 points3 points  (0 children)
I wish she would say more. She may stand gracefully on thin ankles, stare wistfully off in to space but really, it isn't enough. Turn her to the side and she's thin as a rail, the damn girl. Nothing to stand on, nothing to sustain. Always catching little glitters and glimmers through her eyelashes, the sparkly little mute. On the round table, our drinks release steam in to the open air. She crosses her legs and looks up at me again and I have to sigh.
She sighs too, seems the only thing she does is just breathe. Her chest rising and falling, long eyelashes blinking. I wished I had pencilled something in here. This is supposed to be a rising moment. I, well the main character with whom I relate an awful lot, am about a half page from declaring my love for this girl and I am at a complete loss. What do I say? I don't exactly recall something meaningful with which I can begin.
"Autumn, I'm on the inside now. Sweetheart." Glassy sea green eyes blink. "I'm not sure if you can hear me, but I need to know more about you, and frankly more about us." I reach over to brush the hair off her shoulder and backhand her in the face because Lassen's reach is about 6 inches longer than mine. She laughs open-mouthed and it sounds like rolling stones in a brook. Her purse is full of books that only weigh her down because she only knows how to start them, but still I, as tall ass Lassen, take her by the hand and say, "You'd think we would know each other better by know."
Laughing she kisses me. Her eyes crinkle on the edges like love letters and my heart soars for but a moment. But still, no conversation. Nothing concrete. So I sit across the table like a card who has been played. Cemented here with a mirage, mere image, mirror image of the girl I thought I loved but came to see I hardly knew.
[–]smplmn92 1 point2 points3 points  (0 children)
This reminds me of a book titled "Inkheart". I'd write a overview for it but I'll just paste this one:
Meggie’'s father, Mo, has a wonderful and sometimes terrible ability. When he reads aloud from books, he brings the characters to life--literally. Mo discovered his power when Maggie was just a baby. He read so lyrically from the the book Inkheart, that several of the book’s wicked characters ended up blinking and cursing on his cottage floor. Then Mo discovered something even worse--when he read Capricorn and his henchmen out of Inkheart, he accidentally read Meggie’s mother in.
It's actually a really interesting book. Would definitely recommend reading it!
[–]lunasolaris 1 point2 points3 points  (0 children)
I grumbled with annoyance. The light of the moon twinkled through the stained glass windows of the cathedral-esque manor and onto the throne I was seated on. I had yet to glean from even the most clever of my friends within the story how I'd come to be trapped within, but I'd been sucked into my most recent literary adventure. A story of a vampire duke, which I could now see was terrible in many aspects. This duke, Renatus Bellamy, was everything that every vampire ever was. He was aristocratic, graceful, well-groomed, handsome, charming, seductive, and intensely sadistic. And I had to act the part around all but one. A stupid little self-aware dimwit who was a vampire but also a bumbling oaf.
"Milord, are you thirsty?" came the voice from the end of a corridor. I cringed, knowing all too well who it was. It was one of Bellamy's many thralls who doubled as concubines. She was a beautiful and busty maiden whose name didn't matter because she was only around for her looks. With pigeon-toed steps, she meandered over and presented her exposed neck for my pleasure.
"Oh, yes. Thank you, Lucille." I rolled my eyes and sunk my fangs deep into her neck, drinking the blood that nourished this strange body. I'd accidentally killed two of the previous thralls by not knowing how much blood to drink, but I'd figured it out by the third night. I'd lost count of how many nights I'd been trapped in this book, but it was far too many.
"Is everything all right, milord? You seem to be unhappy."
"All is fine, my dear."
"Would you like me to pleasure you?" I shuddered. Why had I written them to be so dull and lifeless? I mean, they were thralls but one can only enjoy the company of their husks for so long.
"No, not tonight, Lucille." The little thing looked absolutely devastated that I was uninterested in her that night. Which was not surprising, since they were all mindless playthings meant to satisfy my every whim and desire. I did indulge in their company quite often, but there was no personality. Nothing to hold my interest. They were little more than anatomically correct dolls. "Do you know where Lord Giles is tonight?"
"I do not know, milord. He's been staying at Lady Emeralda's estate most recently," Lucille told me. I groaned and pinched my brow. Not her. Not her again. "Would you like me to contact her?"
"No, no," I grumbled again. "I'll do it myself." I retrieved the mirror that would get me in contact with the woman. A stupid and convoluted device I'd conjured up during a bit of a writer's block while trying to think of a way they could quickly contact each other during a time period with no phones. The mirror darkened like it was being covered with soot and the image faded, one thing I was proud of in this world, and Emeralda's face appeared. I was no longer proud of that mirror.
"Hello, Renatus," she said. Her voice was husky and meant to be seductive. "Are you already missing my company?" The last word was emphasized heavily with a smirk. I felt myself hold back a groan. Emeralda was a beautiful woman. She had porcelain skin, wavy black hair, lips painted red, and emerald green eyes. This woman had looks to kill, lips like sin, and a voice like melted dark chocolate. But, god, she was dull. Her defining feature was that she seductive, but that was it. No personality beyond those bedroom eyes.
"Of course I am, milady. But, I was wondering if you might have seen Lord Giles recently?" Her brow furrowed and a small pout formed on her lips. "I've had him working on a task for me."
"No, I haven't. He was here two days ago, but left."
"I see."
"Was that all you wanted?" I could hear in her voice what she was insinuating, and a sighed a little. "I could help you with that little task of yours."
"Are you sure, Lady Emeralda? It could be too much for you to handle," I said, playing along. If I didn't, there would be a commotion. Few people turned down her advances, and it was known that Renatus favored her over even his favorite thralls. "We wouldn't want someone to get hurt."
"Don't worry, I don't mind getting a little hurt," she teased. "I'll be over shortly." I put down the mirror, though I was tempted to shatter it. Lucille snapped to attention when I did and helped me out of my chair so I could get ready to see Emeralda. As we went back to my bedchambers, I made a silent vow. Whenever I got out, I would rewrite the entire thing. Duke Bellamy doesn't deserve this.
[–]thedepressedoptimist 1 point2 points3 points  (0 children)
Super short story that requires Wheel of Time knowledge:
Robert Jordan reached for saidin, the male half of the One Power and the source of all magic. He sniffed and wove air flows to burst his ear drums. Thank the Light he never has to listen to Nynaeve bitch at him again.
[–]EverydaysMundane 1 point2 points3 points  (0 children)
First ever prompt.
“Anything else?” She chimes.
And that’s the problem, it’s all like clockwork.
Each second eagerly murders the one that lingered before, pushing its way to the forefront to briefly live and like me, the life that awaits is short, disappointing and all too predictable - like this damn waitress.
For a long time I thought I had what it took to read people, not in a ‘make friends and influence’ kinda way and certainly not without error, but I paid attention to those little moments, the ones that seemed to escape others. I mean, I thought I did.
I remember when I first met her. I had watched her for a day or so, and had joked that she was too good for this place. I thought she had it all, and I thought I saw it.
I remember our second conversation or at least, our encounter a few hours after we eschewed in the day mid coitus.
“What are you reading” Hoping it was something I knew, had heard of, hoping to lean on my youthfully laughable repertoire. “It’s a book about love” she barely looked up and although I could only see her sunglasses, I got the impression the eyes underneath were darker still. And don’t get me wrong, even then I understood that her comments and delivery were indicative of the cool kid façade. I didn’t care then, not sure I do now.
So there we sat, my back to the sun casting me a shadow and her? Well she bathed in photonic splendour. I remember hoping I looked good in that lighting. Wow...all these years and that’s what stands out still. Anyway, point is this – That moment, she, who I was? They are gone. Time shifts, nothing to mourn, nothing to fear.
And that’s the problem, and I do fear, my punishment. Some kind of cosmic recurrence or vindictive karma, dress it up however you like, high heels and hand gun, one in the chamber and an eye on the sights.
I’ve lived my life, and I’ve created others of which this... this is my most honest, as honest as I could’ve been back then. But I’ve had a lot of time to reflect. Narcissism fuelled my encounters and formed my opinions, I saw who I wanted and they were all extensions of me. So here I am, looking over the heart of California on a day that could render those before it mere imposters and I’m surrounded. Surrounded by me, traits and facets that share elements of my strengths and reflect all my failures... immobilising in their predictability.
She’s behind me, she’s reading. I can’t quite see the cover.
“sir anything else...?”
I smile and wave her away.
[–]Scherazade 2 points3 points4 points  (1 child)
It was a silver moon. It made no sense how the moon shimmered like that, but then, metaphor was always my weak point.
My name is Steve Queen. And I'm a writer.
Horror is my thing, and the fact I'm a writer means I'm embroiled in one of my own plots, for my protagonist is usually based on myself, or I appear in the story.
What is it this time, I wonder, as I walk through the Portland wasteland I called home in another life.
A killer mime, maybe? 'They all sink' indeed! John Cleese was great in the movie version.
As I reach an Irish pub named Whitecastle, with a sign suspiciously like the cover of my most popular series, the Bright Tower, I decide to pop in and have a pint of good old fashioned Harp. They say it's high in essential metals.
On entering, I realised something.
Where are all the ladies?
In dawning horror, I run outside. I hear the shrieks and smacks of abuse, and shrewish bitches of my narration. I hear little girls crying.
There was nobody compelling in this world with a vagina. And then the flying meatball ate me with its vagina mouth.
[–]HerpthouaDerp 2 points3 points4 points  (0 children)
Ah, I see who you're sticking it to here...
Alan Wake, right?
[–]CaseH1984 2 points3 points4 points  (0 children)
Jon sat in the officer's lounge on probably the last human ship in the universe. He wasn't sure what had brought him 'here' or really any of the metaphysics other than to him this place he had written obsessively over was real. He explored as best he could, thankful that even though this technically was a millitary ship he had made it a refugee vessel taking in anyone and everyone. That took care of trying to blend in.
As he stared at the amber liquid in his glass he wondered if any of this were real or if he'd simply had a psychotic break from reality. These thoughts crept in from time to time, but ultimately the argument with himself ended the same as it always had; with him deciding it didn't much matter since the reality he observed behaved as if it were 'real'.
Philosophy pushed back down the hole wince it came as Jon saw Ann and Lita walk by. Inwardly he cringed even as he outwardly smiled at the pair. Another cringe as Stacy and Sarah walked past. Then Science Officer Crowley, then....
To them he was a curiosity. a 'Natural' male. Sure he wasn't the only one in this place, but the ship had been female only before the disasters and invasions. His idea of trying to get around the problem of pidgeonholling millitary women as ultra-hardasses and or bitchy betties that were pail immitations of Sergent Hartman. They were an effective crew, adaptable, resourceful.... and utterly BORING from the perspective of an outsider.
No smalltalk. No wants or interests beyond The Mission. Even the ones in relationships... it all seemed Mechanical to him now. All the motions without any of the soul.
Stacy glanced his way and quirked an eyebrow before moving on. Jon put his head in his hands and muttered a curse. He thought he was hot stuff, portraying bot ha capible cast of characters and making hash of the idea that 'oh they're millitary so they gotta be butch lesbians.' True a few were, but even as boring as he found everyone that wasn't even theri defining characteristic. Just a throwaway line here, a tic on the character charts he'd filed away on his home machine's wiki on the setting.
Maybe it was just him though. Trapped in with the same faces day in and out. "I am in hell," Jon proclaimed softly.
"Pay up." Crowley smirked from where she was lounging, Presenting her tablet, with some acronym Jon couldn't even remember, to one of the no-name background characters.
This character snorted but touched her tablet to Crowley's. "I was wondering when he'd figure it out." Ther ewas something different about her as she stood. Nothing so obvious as horns or physical traits. There simply was a feeling of dread forming in the pit of Jon's stomach when he looked at her. "As they say. We're all damned. Your punishment is to be here with us, seeing nothign but your own flaws. We're punished to play the parts in this play."
Crowley took another drink, "And the reset should be hitting in three... two... O-"
Hello, My name is Jon Whitmore. I do not know how I have ended up in the twenty second century on a converted military ship that existed only as a shelf-stuffer scifi drama I'd written a decade ago. I only know that I'm here, and everything feels real.
...and i am getting thoroughly sick of the crew on this tub.
[–]TotesMessengerX-post Snitch 1 point2 points3 points  (0 children)
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[–][deleted]  (1 child)
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    [–]Nate_ParkerModerator | /r/Nate_Parker_Books[M] 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
    Please put comments like these in the WritingPromptsRobot comment section at the bottom of the thread. For an explanation of the new discussion thread, see 202halffound's post here.
    See rule #2. All top level comments must be stories (exceeding 30 words and not joke/troll responses) or requests for clarification. For the full Writing Prompts Rules, go here
    Thanks.
    • The Mod Team
    [–]viewtiful-jay 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
    I had woken up early to the stale, weak coffee I wrote into my story two weeks ago. I sighed - I thought I was being descriptive, I thought adding detail was important. Why couldn't the details be about coffee that perks you up?
    She walked out of the next room. I couldn't stand to be around her; I had never written a more ridiculous manifestation of a woman! Her hair was in a bun, piled sloppily on top of her head. She was wearing round, large framed glasses, Austin's flannel that draped over her thin frame, and her slightly smudged makeup gave her a cute, quirky look that I had come to despise.
    I thought that I was being so edgy when I wrote this story. After all, not many straight men write a gay romance too often. My two main characters, Austin and Roy, were due to wake up any minute (at 8:02 as a matter of fact), and they were a hoot. But I never imagined in a million years that I'd be trapped in a world where the only woman was a boring, faux-quirky Zooey Deschanel side character.
    I sighed, and took another sip of my weak coffee. I was destined to sleep with a fag hag forever.
    [–]melismal 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
    "Sir you're needed at the captain's office," spoke an authoritative voice with a "Louise" name tag. One hard shove of Louise's mechanical arms and Stanley is spread out on the ground. He looks up at the silicone cleavage and massages his head in pain. The humanoid chugs along the metal rails, towards the office.
    Despite how most of her skin had fallen off, Louise was a 0024 Female Subordinate model, known for their sexualized bodies and disciplined professionalism. Fan fiction writers never bothered to hack into her functions, which was fine because they would certainly be disappointed with the utilitarianism of this model. The creative cost for upgrading Louise would be astronomical.
    Stanley Howard Lee stares past the glassy dome for passing meteors and asteroids. He noticed them on his first days here, and he would wish to escape from the world of "The Chronicle of Captain Stardust". Around the fiftieth "shooting star" he broke down in tears, realizing that he was consumed with superstitions and that he was stupid for taking all of his medications on the toilet that day.
    He faded into this world as he faded out of the last, and had sat chanting in this very spot: "It's a hallucination. I'm in a coma. I want to die. Not like this." On that night, Stanley met Louise for the first time. Her beauty became boring, but he found her useful for measuring time in Louise-cycles. The Louise-cycle was the one month time span of the unfinished book. SS Voyager explodes painfully in the last chapter and then Louise appears again. "Like a mother," Stanley chuckles quietly, remembering his original disgust for the bot.
    He gets up after an hour, still trying to remember the company of the distant and logical stars. "Apocalyptic cataract, these milky ways and here to say. This is but the aftermath, of flim and folly every day," he hums and limps to the office. Stanley came to speak little and in little rhymes. Before the captain dies at the end of every cycle he would inevitably joke, "Stanley, you quoting Shel Silverstein or something?" And Stanley would become solemn, "with a dead wife and a dead heart."
    [–]schizokid 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
    A writer incapable of writing writes about being a writer, mundanity and boredom abound as he tries ever so hard to sound meta and clever, failing to realize that writing about writing is a post-modern trope that goes back before the 30s with Woolfe, Joyce, Hemingway and Fitzgerald. He veers wildly across internet forums searching for writing prompts realizing he/she/ze has no talent for writing and no real life experience that would ground a writer well enough to actually say something of importance or interest.
    [–]informat2 1 point2 points3 points  (0 children)
    A writer, trapped in his own book, regrets not writing more attractive female characters
    FTFY
    Also it's spelled "interesting" not "intresting".
    [–]DdMDaniels 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
    I don't think he would be having any regrets, if they are simple, it means he can easily entice them into doing what he wants, which means lots of sex. The only thing he may potentially regret is not making all the women very lewd.
    [–]punk_ass_ 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
    I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes, allowing the pressure to manufacture a kaleidoscope in motion behind my eyelids. Chapter eleven was missing something. Could another hour closer to sunrise reveal that perfect algorithm of edits that would make this book a bestseller? I let the pressure build a moment too long to watch the patterns disappear as I opened my eyes, readjusting to the bright computer screen in front of me. An odd scent of musky perfume hit my nostrils and I wondered at it as I sank back in my chair. There hadn't been a woman in this apartment for months, and I'd been awake too long.
    I had it, I almost had it. The only thing holding me back from my big debut as an author, my rise to stardom, my dreams realized: chapter eleven. The morning after. More introspection from my main character, Cliff? Wasn't that the bulk of chapters four through nine?
    A knock at the door. The bedroom door.
    I live alone.
    My office chair skid loudly backward as I jumped to my feet, my eyes darting between objects within reach. A game console, a desk lamp, a waste basket. An empty bottle. That would do.
    Ready to break glass, I demanded, "Who's there?" only to be greeted with a low, syrupy voice coming from my hallway.
    The voice, distinctively feminine, replied, "It's me." Her charming tone implied obliviousness to my panic. She disarmed me with her nonchalance and against my instincts I lowered the bottle, approaching the door.
    She looked me up and down before our eyes meet. My eyes widened behind my glasses as my pupils drank her in. A silky red dress clung to the contours of her curvy shape, draping loosely around her feet. I followed the exposed skin up a slit in the fabric reaching halfway up her thigh, my eyes dancing across her tiny waist, getting lost for a moment and then meeting, again, her eyes, hungry and peculiarly colorless. Impossibly devoid and yet lovely.
    I found my voice. "Aubrey." It was halfway between a question and a statement.
    "I hope you don't mind that I let myself in, baby. Pour a girl a drink?"
    It was her, my chapter eleven. Personified. Aubrey in the red dress from the banquet. Cliff took her home when his mind was tortured by the big decision he would make in chapter twelve. She wasn't a significant part of the story, but I had fun writing her. I went into elaborate detail at the curve of her back, the long, brunette locks that fell over soft, smooth skin as they went to bed. I had a dream about her the night I wrote her; I recognized her instantly.
    As she gazed at me through long, dark eyelashes, it occurred to me that I left out the color of her eyes. The curiosity of this missing detail was fleeting and I was soon enthralled by the possibility of probing a character's brain for the secrets of the lackluster chapter of my first novel. I took her to the kitchen as requested.
    "All I've got is Natural Light."
    "If you're happy, I'm happy, baby."
    I led her to the couch and sat down, setting my beer on the coffee table in front of me. She sat rather close. I felt the fabric of her dress brush my arm as she made herself comfortable. The sensation of my character's red dress, and the thought of her in my apartment, gave me goosebumps. My character, in the flesh!
    Feeling a wave of nervousness, I reached for my beer. As I took a sip, I glanced at her from behind my glass. She made eyes at me just as I had described in the banquet scene with Cliff. I saw my words so vividly alive before me. She giggled as I replaced my glass in the spot where it had left a ring on the wooden table.
    I had so many questions. I asked her what she thought of the scene where she first appears. "Oh, Cliff," she purred. "You looked so rugged and manly when you walked in, handing your coat and fedora to the woman at the coat check, I had to have you the moment I saw you!" She leaned in closer and I grew warm.
    As she began to nibble my earlobe, I mused over the realization that she thought I was my main character. It was true that Cliff was modeled after my own person. I lacked his courage and his exciting life, but we shared many of our motivations. He had grown callous over a tortured past, just as I had retreated into myself after years of unwarranted and cruel rejection from the fairer sex. I felt the wetness of tongue in my ear and pulled away.
    "Do you think Cliff's stroll through the park the next morning was too drawn out, or was it valuable in advancing his character development?"
    "Baby, you left without saying goodbye. I missed you so." She ran her fingers through my hair. I felt a twinge of regret for forgetting to buy shampoo last week when I was grocery shopping.
    "What about his internal monologue, though?"
    She giggled again. "I wouldn't know anything about that, silly."
    "The conversation over drinks the night before, then? At the bar, after the banquet?"
    "You're so sexy when you furrow your brow like that. Mmm," she moaned.
    I rubbed my hand across my neck, feeling irritated. I felt the prickles of an unshaven beard underneath my fingers, wondering whether to throw in the towel. It wasn't that I was uninterested in my character - she was, quite literally, my dream girl.
    But my novel. It was bankrupt!
    [–]curtainh8r 1 point2 points3 points  (0 children)
    Tall and short, fat and not,
    Some are smart,
    Some with the intellect of a fart,
    You'd find them all here,
    They've got the backstory,
    The pain, the unpredictability,
    But what I really miss the most
    Is a real woman,
    She, whom I'd never understand,
    Whom words could never define.
    [–]JSaucy [score hidden]  (0 children)
    I came here to practicing reading, but I figure I should learn to read before practicing. I mean comprhension, I dont understand a word of whats being said.
    [–][deleted]  (11 children)
    [deleted]
      [–]lilbluehair 13 points14 points15 points  (10 children)
      So in your opinion, any novel that doesn't specifically target "female consumers" is automatically targeted to men. Maybe making "male audience" the default, and "female audience" a specialized market, is the problem itself?
      Just like LEGO - stores assume they're "boy toys" and need to be pink to be marketed to girls, even though they're gender-neutral. Same with NERF.
      The problem isn't with "the female consumer", it's companies that think we don't consume things unless they paint it pink. We're consuming TONS of shit that isn't marketed to "the female consumer" but they don't notice because they assume "female audience" is the niche market.
      [–]Scherazade 3 points4 points5 points  (2 children)
      Girl Nerf is the stupidest thing ever. I asked a colleague's kids once if they preferred pink Nerf or regular Nerf, and they were all "Honestly we'd rather have a BB gun."
      [–]Vatricidal 3 points4 points5 points  (1 child)
      Actually the Rebelle line pistols are more powerful and accurate than comps of a non-feminine line. Don't get me wrong, I don't think that Nerf really needs to be gendered... but they snuck some really awesome guns in underneath the pink camo.
      [–]Scherazade 2 points3 points4 points  (0 children)
      True. It also looks less bulky usually, which'd probably mean steadier aim due to less weight.
      [–]precisionclear comment score below threshold-8 points-7 points-6 points  (6 children)
      Not all marketing is effective, such as GI Joe doesn't really need a six pack to be interesting to boys, but with record smashing international multicultural sellers such as the two titles above; it was clear the author intentionally created boring, stupid, weak willed woman and matched them up with interesting, attractive, and outgoing men - because they knew that's what women buy.
      This thread, as Western always does - blames men, while giving women the victim card.
      Want more interesting women? Give them the bitter taste of equality that they are so allergic too. Hardship is key to building character.
      [–]lilbluehair 7 points8 points9 points  (4 children)
      the author intentionally created boring, stupid, weak willed woman and matched them up with interesting, attractive, and outgoing men - because they knew that's what women buy.
      Some women bought them. Myself, and all of my 20- and 30-something female friends, did not buy them and only watched the Twilight movie with Rifftracks.
      I've been too busy reading The Sandman and Gone Girl and A Song of Ice and Fire and all those other stories with complicated female characters that you apparently have never heard of
      [–]precisionclear 0 points1 point2 points  (1 child)
      OK parts of my reply was a little off topic.
      I can't remember much from earth sea but "gone girl" came off sounding horribly like a feminist manifesto.
      Men supposedly are attracted to women who likes to party, have 3 somes, and all the things juvenile men are into, but it doesn't matter because he will still cheat on you anyways, which drives her crazy and warrants murder.
      Lyra from the Golden Compass was a complicated female who also had morality and compassion and was stronger than her male companion without it feeling forced.
      [–]lilbluehair 7 points8 points9 points  (0 children)
      Okay, sure. Lyra is a great example of a fleshed-out, complete person of a character.
      Women love His Dark Materials. More women I know than men have read the series.
      So this disproves your assertion "the author intentionally created boring, stupid, weak willed woman and matched them up with interesting, attractive, and outgoing men - because they knew that's what women buy." Women also buy His Dark Materials, so you can't paint 3 billion people with the same shitty paintbrush.
      Also:
      Want more interesting women? Give them the bitter taste of equality that they are so allergic too. Hardship is key to building character.
      Aside from the fucking stupid "allergic to equality" bullshit, your statement is dead-on. We want female characters to be given hardship, like Lyra. Nobody (aside from you, apparently) is saying otherwise.
      [–]precisionclear -2 points-1 points0 points  (1 child)
      "Most Asians are shorter than whites." But because I know a tall Asian, that means all Asians and whites are generally the same height.
      A mainstream aspect of western society is how women are inherently valuable for having a vagina, while men are disposable until they can prove themselves and offer that value to women.
      The amount of cultural literature both generally speaking and target female audiences exaggerates this to the extreme.
      One of my favorite female heroes was Rhapsody by Elizabeth Hayden and the Jean M. Aul "Clan of the cave bear" etc Earth children series.
      It's interesting how even here men's journey involves facing his weaknesses and gaining wisdom from his reckless youth, while female heroes are always about escaping oppression from men, since they were perfect little butterflies from the very beginning, to the very end.
      Want a realistic example of a strong female hero without that bullshit who is treated exactly the same as men?
      How about Ripley from the Alien series.
      [–]lilbluehair 4 points5 points6 points  (0 children)
      I fail to see how any of that is relevant to what I'm talking about.
      Just because most authors pander to shitty stereotypes doesn't make the stereotypes true.
      What I'm saying is that women love to read complicated novels, you just assume we don't because it's not marketed as "a woman's book".
      I'd wager that more than half the audience of most sci fi/fantasy novels are women, and we contribute to the success of those genres, but that is completely ignored in the face of tripe like the shit you bring up (twilight, 50 shades) because the shit is "marketed to women", and everything else is just marketed. And people like you assume we're not reading it, just because it wasn't specifically marketed to women.
      [–]imminent_riot 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
      How about every novel by Tamora Pierce? All female leads and no bullshit.
      [–][deleted]  (9 children)
      [deleted]
        [–]WritingPromptsRobotOff Topic[M] 2 points3 points4 points  (8 children)

        Off Topic Comment Section

        This comment acts as a discussion area for the prompt. All non-story replies should be made as a reply to this comment rather than as a top-level comment.
        This is a feature of /r/WritingPrompts in testing. For more information, click here.
        [–]JacoIII 2 points3 points4 points  (3 children)
        Hey /u/manu_facere, did you get your idea for this prompt from this joke article?
        [–]manu_facere[S] 0 points1 point2 points  (2 children)
        Nope. I stole this idea from you in that thread about tips on comedy writing. I just glanced over the article but i found the url really funny.
        [–]JacoIII 1 point2 points3 points  (1 child)
        Ha! Holy shit, I posted that thread so long ago that I almost forgot about it completely. I'm glad you liked it enough to make it a writing prompt, these stories are great.
        [–]WaterproofThis -1 points0 points1 point  (0 children)
        It thought it was Delirious the John candy movie tbh.
        [–]maitreyan1 0 points1 point2 points  (0 children)
        This one struck me as a really great idea. It reminds me of a script I tried to write where the two main characters are writers, and they are both writing about each others life(in a fictional sense). At first glance you can't determine who is real and who is fiction.
        [–]Capt_Reynolds [score hidden]  (0 children)
        Anyone remember the Ink heart books? This prompt kind of reminds me of them.
        [–]DdMDaniels 0 points1 point2 points  (1 child)
        The issue I have with this [WP] is due to the simple fact that all characters, no matter how "masterfully written" are going to be fairly boring to the writer since he already knows every single detail about them. This prompt equally applies regardless of the authors gender, for example if it was a female writer nearly every male character would be a smoking hot vampire/werewolf/alien/rich dude who can do all sorts of mystical shit and save her ass when shes in trouble and that would be about it, not that there is anything wrong with that.
        From what I can see, this thread seems to me like a thinly veiled attack on male writers, borderline fiction policing or shaming with all the usual buzzwords such as "misogyny" and "male power" and other such rhetoric.
        Anyway the only way the writer can win in this scenario is by making an army of female characters who are super sexy and super in love with him, which I'm sure is what he is truly regretting right now.
        [–]captainflyte [score hidden]  (0 children)
        Dude, its just a prompt, stop getting offended at every little thing.
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