Willow was back on her feet, already walking towards Abigail. She stopped in front of her.
“What? Have we been ignoring it the entire time?” They were close, face to face. “Your stupid spell got him killed. You can’t bring him back. You have to live with it. You need help, Willow.”
She could see a sliver, a remnant, of the friendship they once shared. And maybe it wasn’t Abigail’s fault it no longer existed.
She watched as the coffin grew behind her, upright, pointed towards the stars.
“None of this was worth it.” She whispered, taking a step back.
I sat beside a tree in the darkness of the forest. Crickets sang, and bushes rustled. A putrid scent replaced the scent of pine and citrus. The ground shook as something got closer. Air cut through the hairs on my stinger. I bolted from the dark and pounced on my prey. My stinger hammered through his eye socket. He shook and convulsed as I drank his brain like a milkshake. Blood gushed down his cracked face. I saw remnants of myself - as I stared into his horrified face. I wasn’t always like this. I didn’t want to be a monster.
“Police today sealed off Orchard House in the small village of Darlton where remnants of a body have been found…”
The news took me straight back to my childhood. Orchard House, 1979, My friend, Colin and his ridiculous story about a leg in the attic. Only, when I followed him up, there it was, wrapped in black plastic. To our feverish minds, unmistakably a leg.
“What are you two doing up here?” Colin’s dad climbed into view. We all stared at it. “That? That’s just an old, crooked table leg, boys, I’m staining the wood.”
A continuation of the story created from the prompt Grimoire, which fits with this theme:
My hands flicked the grimoire open really quickly, and I flipped through the pages without abandon. The aura from the book grew in intensity until I reached the middle, when the aura faded completely. The attic began to spin.
“What’s happening?” I wonder.
The spinning accelerated. As it did, the items in the attic began to blur together.
“What’s happening?!?” I cry in fear while I clutch the grimoire.
Eventually the spinning stopped. I didn’t know it yet, but I was in a new world, with the (now damaged) attic being the only remnant of the world I was in.
Scattered, one by one, and aligned as if they had been placed there on purpose by an artist. When I walked over and stepped on them, they made a sound, a kind of crunch as if they were in pain. But their color was very beautiful. A reddish brown, which was impossible to ignore as I walked along. The small leaves fell gently from the trees, like floating, whenever the cold autumn winds from the north blew a little harder. These remnants of the once green trees heralded a new cycle and signified both death and renewal. Autumn had arrived.
Thanks! This is inspired by a photography exhibition from an abandoned school in Japan. The photo captured a sad looking staircase with a clock that stopped around the time of an earthquake.
An old, abandoned house in a bad neighborhood, built by a man who once lived there with his wife and six children. The mother and father are dead, 20 years apart. The children have scattered.
Rey sat in the living room. The orange glow of the streetlight permeates the blinds, illuminating just enough. There are two sofa's and a thick coffee table. The room is still decorated with prideful family photos and objects that seemed to have no theme: elephants, crosses, an embroidery that said "grant me the strength, serenity and wisdom."
John and Mark completed their night's evil work: Murdering the Witch Woman and scattering her ashes to the four winds. She and her spells were gone forever.
Later, John noticed Mark toying with a mystical pendant. Mark said, "It was too beautiful to burn."
"But we were told if even a remnant remains..."
Suddenly, Mark smiled, completing the sentence, "...the Witch will live on. Your brother's greed has given my spirit entry into his body. Life as a man will be interesting. But first..."
As the newborn Witch began the incantation, John fell, his brother's voice intoning the Killing Spell.
Thank you, I like the way contemplating a single word can create a story. And I love how so many very different stories can emerge from the same word! The hard part is pruning them down to size.
By some accounts Father Cyrus’s facilities were a few commandments short of a full ten. This all came out after the incident.
The padre slipped some knockout drops into the communion wine. As his roofied sheep finally came to, with shouts of shock and pain, Cyrus approached the altar with his offering. The massive collection plate was brimming. With human digits.
Mumbling, “Isaiah says a remnant shall remain with the Lord.”
In-house theologians will say all scripture is true, although they debate whether it all is literal. In Cyrus’s mind, whatever was left of it, there was no such doubt.
The king had marked him personally. His future was bright.
And seventy-three days later, that future was gone.
The last tattered remnants of the Hodrir were on the run. Their great hero Kareva was dead—as were his sons, who had quickly raised the largest army Ikune had seen in a generation to go north and avenge their father’s murder. Six nights ago, they had crashed headlong into an even larger force, a massive, bristling, leaderless mob of northerners who threw themselves into the fray with a desperate fearlessness that the disciplined, organized Ikunir soldiers could not overcome. The Pohyor died in horribly, impossibly large numbers. And they took the entire army of Ikune with them.
(Excerpted from EPILOGUE: Seeking Shelter in the Scorpion’s Lair—read the rest here:
PROMPT: REMNANT
100 WORDS
Willow was back on her feet, already walking towards Abigail. She stopped in front of her.
“What? Have we been ignoring it the entire time?” They were close, face to face. “Your stupid spell got him killed. You can’t bring him back. You have to live with it. You need help, Willow.”
She could see a sliver, a remnant, of the friendship they once shared. And maybe it wasn’t Abigail’s fault it no longer existed.
She watched as the coffin grew behind her, upright, pointed towards the stars.
“None of this was worth it.” She whispered, taking a step back.
“Scorps: Remnants”
I sat beside a tree in the darkness of the forest. Crickets sang, and bushes rustled. A putrid scent replaced the scent of pine and citrus. The ground shook as something got closer. Air cut through the hairs on my stinger. I bolted from the dark and pounced on my prey. My stinger hammered through his eye socket. He shook and convulsed as I drank his brain like a milkshake. Blood gushed down his cracked face. I saw remnants of myself - as I stared into his horrified face. I wasn’t always like this. I didn’t want to be a monster.
Late to the party, but here it is
“Police today sealed off Orchard House in the small village of Darlton where remnants of a body have been found…”
The news took me straight back to my childhood. Orchard House, 1979, My friend, Colin and his ridiculous story about a leg in the attic. Only, when I followed him up, there it was, wrapped in black plastic. To our feverish minds, unmistakably a leg.
“What are you two doing up here?” Colin’s dad climbed into view. We all stared at it. “That? That’s just an old, crooked table leg, boys, I’m staining the wood.”
How we all laughed.
Never too late Nick 😁
A continuation of the story created from the prompt Grimoire, which fits with this theme:
My hands flicked the grimoire open really quickly, and I flipped through the pages without abandon. The aura from the book grew in intensity until I reached the middle, when the aura faded completely. The attic began to spin.
“What’s happening?” I wonder.
The spinning accelerated. As it did, the items in the attic began to blur together.
“What’s happening?!?” I cry in fear while I clutch the grimoire.
Eventually the spinning stopped. I didn’t know it yet, but I was in a new world, with the (now damaged) attic being the only remnant of the world I was in.
@Miguel S. My 100 mg of a Remnant:
Scattered, one by one, and aligned as if they had been placed there on purpose by an artist. When I walked over and stepped on them, they made a sound, a kind of crunch as if they were in pain. But their color was very beautiful. A reddish brown, which was impossible to ignore as I walked along. The small leaves fell gently from the trees, like floating, whenever the cold autumn winds from the north blew a little harder. These remnants of the once green trees heralded a new cycle and signified both death and renewal. Autumn had arrived.
Microdosing – 100mg of a Remnant
===
Constant beeps accompanied her. She’d lost count of the days, weaving through the sunflower field, passing the wreckage of the nuclear plant.
She arrived at her old lab. Stained viewing window, covered with wild plants. Her shaky hands wiped the glass. Huge lifeless piles inside.
Large wing remnants, skulls with sharp fangs.
None of them escaped. She let out a relieved sigh. The world is safe.
The Geiger–Müller was at its highest pitch. She saw the dead clock on the wall, preserving the tsunami’s arrival.
She wiped the blood drop from under her nose, hoping to make it out alive.
Very well captured Olivia!
Nice!
Thanks! This is inspired by a photography exhibition from an abandoned school in Japan. The photo captured a sad looking staircase with a clock that stopped around the time of an earthquake.
Well you pulled an excellent story out of that inspiration! 😎
PROMPT: REMNANT
THE REMNANT
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t give up.
But it was proving to be a much tougher battle than he’d anticipated.
And he wasn’t even sure if success was possible.
He was hungry for it, and he could almost taste it, and yet, despite his best efforts, it still remained elusive.
It was teasing him, and tormenting him, letting him think he’d finally cracked it, and then just at the last second, it would slip out of reach again.
It was so frustrating.
No matter what he tried, that last remnant of Peanut Butter was determined to stay in the jar… 😎
An old, abandoned house in a bad neighborhood, built by a man who once lived there with his wife and six children. The mother and father are dead, 20 years apart. The children have scattered.
Rey sat in the living room. The orange glow of the streetlight permeates the blinds, illuminating just enough. There are two sofa's and a thick coffee table. The room is still decorated with prideful family photos and objects that seemed to have no theme: elephants, crosses, an embroidery that said "grant me the strength, serenity and wisdom."
This was a great place to shoot heroin.
Lmao, that caught me off guard.
John and Mark completed their night's evil work: Murdering the Witch Woman and scattering her ashes to the four winds. She and her spells were gone forever.
Later, John noticed Mark toying with a mystical pendant. Mark said, "It was too beautiful to burn."
"But we were told if even a remnant remains..."
Suddenly, Mark smiled, completing the sentence, "...the Witch will live on. Your brother's greed has given my spirit entry into his body. Life as a man will be interesting. But first..."
As the newborn Witch began the incantation, John fell, his brother's voice intoning the Killing Spell.
Greed strikes again! Great one.
Thank you, I like the way contemplating a single word can create a story. And I love how so many very different stories can emerge from the same word! The hard part is pruning them down to size.
You have a talent for micro-stories.
Thank you Ken!
THE WAKE UP - 100MG OF A REMNANT
It was 3:21am when Annie awoke.
She found this time particularly unsettling considering it was both well into the night, but still a distance from daybreak.
This wasn’t the first time her sleep was disturbed, but it wasn’t often enough to be concerning.
The sound that broke Annies sleep was a light tapping sound consistent with the cadence of a grandfather clock, and just as unassuming.
She laid on her side perfectly still and watched the crucifix of the rosary that was wrapped around her bedpost.
It swayed back and forth guided by no breeze, but perhaps a remnant of the past.
very atmospheric! and that time of the morning... its got me a few times
Spooky!
very vivid and full of passion. is it something you recall from life maybe?
Thank you. It's not it just kinda came to me like this :)
By some accounts Father Cyrus’s facilities were a few commandments short of a full ten. This all came out after the incident.
The padre slipped some knockout drops into the communion wine. As his roofied sheep finally came to, with shouts of shock and pain, Cyrus approached the altar with his offering. The massive collection plate was brimming. With human digits.
Mumbling, “Isaiah says a remnant shall remain with the Lord.”
In-house theologians will say all scripture is true, although they debate whether it all is literal. In Cyrus’s mind, whatever was left of it, there was no such doubt.
oh wow! That is chock full of wrong and bad! well done!
Thx gotta give Miguel a little gore once in a while.
Ugh. That's awful. Also the spiking of communion wine made me think of The Midnight Mass on Netflix, a pretty cool show.
Thx will check it out
This creeps me out, but it's an awesome story!
Thx a little gross for my style but trying to get in the season
Tanaz had not flinched, had not blinked.
The king had marked him personally. His future was bright.
And seventy-three days later, that future was gone.
The last tattered remnants of the Hodrir were on the run. Their great hero Kareva was dead—as were his sons, who had quickly raised the largest army Ikune had seen in a generation to go north and avenge their father’s murder. Six nights ago, they had crashed headlong into an even larger force, a massive, bristling, leaderless mob of northerners who threw themselves into the fray with a desperate fearlessness that the disciplined, organized Ikunir soldiers could not overcome. The Pohyor died in horribly, impossibly large numbers. And they took the entire army of Ikune with them.
(Excerpted from EPILOGUE: Seeking Shelter in the Scorpion’s Lair—read the rest here:
https://shieldbreakersaga.substack.com/p/epilogue-seeking-shelter-in-the-scorpions)
ill have you know I AM A NORTHERNER and we are tired of these stereotypes! 😉
Listen man, some of my best friends are northerners. But
Loved it!
Thank you Ben!
Yikes. And yet somehow, that’s still less horrific than I thought it was going to get when the roofies came out.
Well done sir.
Thx. Yes I debated worse lol, not my usual lane but ‘tis the season