Writing Prompt Challenge -- Prompt 4

Welcome to this week's Writing Prompt challenge!

Today’s prompt is: You are a teenager with the ability to measure how "Dangerous" people are on a scale from 1 to 10 just by looking at them. A normal child would be a 1, while a trained man with an assault rifle might be a 7. Today, you notice the unassuming new kid at school measures a 10.

I've had this gift for awhile now.

I can't exactly pinpoint where it started, mostly because I didn't really believe it fully until a few years ago. It's not a literal numeric scale, but I like to refer to it as such for sake of implicity.

Basically, I can tell how much of a threat people are.

It's the same instinctual feeling we all have, that feeling of protecting your loved ones, except a few differences. First of all, its not just people who threaten my family, it's everyone. Second of all, it's always right.

I've tried looking at myself in the mirror to determine which one I was a number of times, but each time I got some result from 1-10, never straight. My mother is a 2 when around me or the family, but a 5 when around strangers. I took that this followed her sharp wit and unfortunate beginnings, as she could be quite a tough and intimidating woman when she needed to be.

My boyfriend, Pierce, is a straight 3. Don't see how, though – he honestly wouldn't even hurt a butterfly if he had to. I guess that it was something he kept in the back of his brain just in case the need arose, just like my mother. The rest of my friends are around 2-4, and the most “dangerous” man I've ever met is my principal who had a 6, likely due to his ex-army experience.

He was the most dangerous man. Until Wednesday.

The second the kid walked out of his parent's sedan I was already getting bad vibes. On the outside, he looked pretty damn normal: glasses, waved back blond hair, and a red polo. He practically didn't have any muscle. But as he got closer to the school, and to me, I began feeling worse and worse until the number finally came to me.

“Ten.”

“What?” My boyfriend asked it from my side. Besides my mother, he was the only one who knew about – and believed – my ability.

“That kid over there. He's a ten.” I pointed to the person in question.

“How? He doesn't look threatening at all.”

“I don't know, but I want to find out.”

And so I did, or at least tried to. He was a grade above me, so besides passing each other in the hall once, in which I saw nothing, I didn't really get to see what was up. I decided to wait until it was after school to get Pierce to spy with me.

We hid behind a bush, getting quite a lot of suspicious looks, but fortunately the man himself didn't notice.

It seemed still that he was entirely normal, and I was about to call it out until Pierce whispered to me in a shocked voice.

“Look, his hand!”

It wasn't much – not much for those paying attention to notice – but it was obvious. The kid's hand was on fire.

Instead of reacting to it in the way of, well, having your hand being on fire, he instead simply patted it down with his other hand until it was gone. It was at the moment that it clicked.

“He has a power, too.”

“Of what? Setting his hand on fire?”

“It explains the ten, doesn't it?”

That night I got to thinking how many more of us their could be out there. It's clear his power is much stronger than mine, so perhaps there is a whole group of people whose powers range from large to small. Maybe like me, the person doesn't believe they have the power. Or maybe, they simply haven't figured out what it is yet.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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Writing Prompt Challenge -- Prompt 3

Welcome to this week's Writing Prompt challenge!

This prompt is:You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork and your proposed victim will be notified of your intentions

The afternoon began pretty normal for me.

I had just gotten off work, parking the car in place when I got out and noticed an envelope sticking out of the mailbox. Of course I had assumed that it was just another piece of mail, so I brought it inside and sat it down on the table. It was only once inside that my heart quaked upon the realization of what the letter was.

DEPARTMENT OF HUMAN OVERPOPULATION RESOURCES

For Mr. Ryan Schaffer

LETTER OF PURGE NOTICE

I guess I never thought too hard on the idea that anyone could want me dead.

But once I read the message, it was obvious; my brother.

I had always overshadowed him. He always believed that our parents cared about me much more than him, and that I had more friends, more relationships, et cetera. I had always tried to reason with him – that it wasn't true, that there was plenty of times that people cared about him just as much as they did me.

By the time we graduated high school, he went somewhere else and none of us had ever heard from him again. I always felt pity for him, but now I had no choice. The hunt started on 5 minutes from when I finished the letter. I had to defend myself.

I did mostly what I remembered from the advice the surviving defenders of the hunt had given in various interviews and internet posts – I boarded up the door, the windows, got my pistol, and headed upstairs.

It was quiet for a while. I had locked myself in my bedroom and had waited for what seemed like an eternity until I heard a load scratching noise in the backdoor. At this moment my body shut down in fear, as I realized the mistake that I made.

I had only barred ONE door – the front one. I had totally forgotten about the backside of the house, save the windows. I kept my gun close as a soft thud continued from the backdoor, through the house, and up the stairs.

Finally, it stopped.

My hands were shaking now, pointing the gun at the door in front of me. With a loud crack the axe made a whole in the door. And another. And another. And another.

Finally the door burst opened, and I shot.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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Writing Prompt Challenge -- Prompt 2

Welcome to this week's Writing Prompt challenge!

This prompt is:

Serial killer has been monitoring his next victim's movements for months. She is a loner and the perfect target. One day she disappears and nobody notices but him.

What I do is an art. An art that takes time, work, and dedication.

Why most people look down upon it is no wonder, and that's not my issue. I'm not hear to tell you what I do is a good thing, and that the public has misguided you. I was born with the taste of blood: from the start of my days the idea of pain, of blood spilling, it all calmed me. The only time I felt truly alive was depriving that of others.

But the best part was never the victim, it was what came after. The pain of the friends and families. Of wanting justice to be done, but it was just out of reach. You see, my method is different. There is no motive, no gimmick. I don't write cryptic letters to the police, or target specific people. What I have is something else entirely.

It's an algorithm – a distinct one at that. It was fortunate that I was born into a family as wealthy as mine, or else I wouldn't be able to do what I do. I fly around the world you see; as each target is different. An old Mongolian stable-master to a newborn from Ohio – there's no difference. We're all the same in the end, as I am not specific in who I kill. All that matters is someone must die.

I've been among you for awhile now. No one has been able to find me. You may be next, but who knows – it all lies within the cards.

Samantha was one of the ones the cards picked. She was fresh out of high school – no real known friends or family, but known to delve into the gothic. I'm used to high-pressure situations, but its always good to have a laid back kill like this. 5 foot 8, long dark brown hair, goes to the neighborhood university, listens to metal, goes on a walk every Sunday, from 7 AM to a quarter after.

But why should I tell you this? Doesn't writing this down lead to a weak point? To being caught and crucified? You are right, but these are peculiar times: as I think someone might have gotten to her before me.

There's a lot more to her routine, but the reason I pointed out the Sunday walks was that was when I first noticed. 3 months had passed; it was almost time for the killing. However, I waited, and she never came out. I assumed she may have gone out earlier than normal, so I waited some more. By the time I next checked the clock it was 9 AM, and Samantha was no where to be seen. My heart started racing.

I decided to check the house – I had before while she was out for her classes, so I knew the rooms very well. For the most part, it goes well – with the exception of an Ontario trip when the teenage daughter of my target had been present. Besides a switch of victims, the trip did fairly decently. But this was different – now I had been going into the house with the full expectation that there may be someone there. I thought about the different situations I may be faced with, but in the end it was pointless. I had to go in. I had to find her.

But I couldn't. The house was not stirred. I checked her bedroom and the blankets were disturbed but otherwise no different. The shoes, keys, everything all in its right place.

I have seen this sort of scene before. I have caused it many times.

Someone took Samantha before me. No one takes my prey – whoever they are, I will find them. Rarely am I motivated to kill a certain target, but this is different. Much different. 


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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Writing Prompt Challenge -- Prompt 1

Welcome to this week's Writing Prompt challenge!

This prompt is:

A Man gets to paradise. Unfortunately, Lucifer won the War in Heaven ages ago. What is the man's experience like?

James found himself in a very familiar place but with a very peculiar look.



Yup, this was heaven alright. Somehow the prophets of God and Heaven had got it all correct. James took a moment of self-congratulation for keeping that Bible under his bed despite not caring for religion in the slightest. I suppose critically catholic parents also helped him as well.



And so here it was, the beloved Gates of St. Peter. The only difference was the man who was meant to meet him; James himself wasn't too sure if it was Moses or his guardian angel or God himself he was supposed to meet for the reasons explained above, but he was almost certain the weregoat in front of him wasn't supposed to be it.



“H-hello?”



“Yeah buddy, just walk right through.”



No, something just wasn't right. Angels were all normal people with wings, weren't they? Why would this guy be any different?



But then the reality hit him, and when it did it hit him like a brick, though compared to other people this brick hit a lot more slowly as most would've instantly recognized that the goat was a symbol of the devil. Then again, this isn't some esoteric religious scholar we're talking about.



James struggled with his words. “Am I... am I in Hell?”



The goat merely shrugged. “Well, I guess. But not really. This is kind of just extra space. Listen – just go through the god damn gate.”



Something was definitely up, for something as sinful as the damnation of god in god's own domain didn't seem likely. Reluctantly James conceded to the goatman's commands, and he was lead up to meet the man himself – the Devil.



“Hey man, have a seat.”



Satan, in his initial mannerisms, seemed a lot more polite than James had originally considered. Still, the newest member of Neo-Hell kept his guard up.



“Wh-what happened to Heaven? I thought this was where all good men go to die?”



“What? No, well I mean, it's kind of just a place to live again. But that's Hell. You see, this real fucking piece of work named God decided he was too “high-class” for this shit, so he decided to rent up some space in the Heavens to make the Hilton Hotels of death. Fucking jabroni, that kid was.”



“'Was'? What happened to him?”



“Well, I decided I wasn't going to have any of God's bullshit. Decided to invade his ass not that long ago. Won pretty easily, but by that point he had already fucked the minds of all you Earth kids. Some viral marketer named Jesus from Urot-V to reincarnate him as some white male in the middle of the desert. Motherfucker converted half of the damn world. But back to your point, that shitlord got murked.”



“But if you killed God, wouldn't he just come back here?”



Satan pondered this hypothesis. “Huh, guess you're right. Guess this goes deeper than I thought. But that's not important now; welcome to Hell. But like, not as bad as you thought. Kind of just, you know, okay. Not so much pain and spikes to eternal peace, kind of more like mid-size house in the suburbs to midsize house in the suburbs with extremely cheap hispanic labor-work. But really, Heaven wasn't all that great in the first place.”



The lord of Heaven and Hell snapped his fingers, and a chariot of ash, blood, and bodies came out that served as means of public transportation. To his dismay however, his new guest shrunk back upon looking at it.



“Oh Golly! Oh jeez, that thing – that thing's awful!”



“Hey, listen buddy, it's all in a matter of taste. I don't judge you because, you listened to like, prog rock when you were alive, did I?”



“But I didn't listen to prog rock.”



“Do I look like a fucking almanac? How was I just supposed to know that, useless piece of information?”



Eventually things worked out pretty well for the two, and it became just another story in the land of Neo-Heaven. Just perfect. Not rushed at all. This is truly how it ended. Believe me.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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