“You shouldn’t be alive,” the astounded doctors tell him.
His mother weeps at his bedside as if he has died anyway. His father quashes the pro-athletic expectations he’s had for his son… but Matty knows.
Later, alone, he smashes his water glass with a strange but powerful throw from his left arm.
That night, he paces the hospital corridors, peaking through the grill of the morgue door at the steel drawers where he should be lying. Is his limb there, lonely without him?
He keeps walking. Past security. Through the boom gates. Into the liberating darkness of an unplanned future.
As soon as I entered I felt an icy, chilling energy. This is a place where even the future is dead. The half-lit lamps painted the skin-colored amber.
The only things that move are a few flies that seem to enjoy this spooky place. I lay down, face up. The bed I lay on was made of cold, dense metal, emanating a chill that ran through me. The white sheet covering me... wait!
You're in the morgue, you're dead!!! You're lifeless! The only thing that lives is your awareness that you're dead. Death doesn't hurt. What hurts is knowing death.
She looked across the dark lake. The night was cold. Silent. Like a morgue she thought but without the bodies. Without that chill of life gone. Without the stillness when the breathing stops. Without the endings. Without the stories left unfinished.
She wiped her nose with her sleeve. She was not going to finish up in a morgue with strangers trying to guess why she'd done it. Her story was unfinished. She smiled calmly, restarted the car and drove back down the hill.
There was more to her story to be told. She was not going to let him win.
Oh Miguel, that story is amazing. How you took something so macabre and made it so tragic. Brilliant. Glad you had a great holiday and I think you should definitely focus on your novel. We'll all be fine here and hanging round waiting when you've time. And if I get something I will definitely email you my idea :)
I'm too much of a walking chaos to have a list of past prompts haha. But I don't think repeating a prompt (which can be adjusted if needed) is that much of an issue :)
The oaken door creaked open, its crepitation staggering through the undercroft below. Feet clattered down the steps. Huckle carefully lit the tallowed fasces, raised it above his head, and slipped into the void. The depths came alive, their ancient murals and otherworldly hieroglyphs manifesting with each step he took. Through a forest of colonnades and pilasters abutting the vaulted walls, the shadow of a subterranean palazzo revealed its loggias and finely chiseled reliefs. Huckle proceeded, his apprehension consuming him as the lancet vestibule passed overhead, ominously staring down at the mortal penetrating its realm. The walls vanished, his torch ineffective, revealing the true size of the antechamber. But a tiny glint ahead told of his journey’s end. Scurrying toward the giant object, Huckle flung his torch every which way, piecing together the various facets exposing themselves in the light. He came to a center piece and balked. A graphical depiction of At’thuul, the founder of the world’s religion, the purveyor of all knowledge and social structure upon which Huckle’s kingdom built itself, sprawled across the face of the tomb. Inside, lay the remains of the eldest cosmonaut, the alien, to which Huckle paid his respects.
Hey Miguel. Welcome back. Posting here and working on a WIP to publish is definitely challenging. I'm excited to hear more about your novel. Keep up the great work, friend.
I hated death calls where I was called to declare a person dead. Natural cause? Disease? Illness? Murder? Accident? These adventures could be simple and straightforward or gruesome and traumatic. Sure, everyone dies, but the reality is it is loaded with sadness, excruciating anguish, and pain. The mourge is not a welcoming environment at all. It is cold — uncomfortably cold in an eerie, dreary, dankness. Morticians are saints who assist grievous souls in identifying the dead. In the morgue, these masters of frontline grief console souls who wander aimlessly, dazed in dripping and oozing grief.
I remember the Vietnam War and the bodies that returned almost every day to Dover, Delaware. I was young but there was a morgue there for returning dead soldiers to " fix " them up before they were sent to their respective American homes for burial. My cousin went to Vietnam and returned a victim of Agent Orange . He is dead almost 14 years now. While, I, who protested the war and saw when North Vietnam returned computer parts when they took over Saigon in 1975, live on.
There is no greater horror than the loss of lives in war. As Putin continues to assault Ukraine and our current government sides with him, how can any made-up horror compete?
All and all, that Cliff guy is pretty ethical. At least he ain’t harvesting fresh produce
PROMPT: MORGUE
THE ALIEN
They waited nervously for the body to be delivered.
The first extra-terrestrial recovered intact from a crash site.
Which it would be their job to examine.
It’d taken them several hours to get into their hazmat suits, and to prepare all the equipment they felt they would need, but they were ready.
All they needed now was a corpse.
And that’s when they heard it.
The commotion outside.
Muffled screams.
They rushed to the window, and arrived just in time to see the back doors of a van bursting open.
And a very much alive alien disappearing into the night… 👽😎👽
Another sci-fi guy?
Hi! Yes! I love Horror and Sci-Fi, and things tend to go in those directions quite regularly. Haha... 😎
That’s especially the case when I write dystopian pieces.
As the death toll from the plague outbreak mounted, the morgue just couldn’t cope with the cadavers.
‘We should really be burying them in plague pits’ said Mort
‘Good point’ said Doug.
‘After all,’ continued Mort ‘what if there’s an outbreak of fever and ague? People sometimes die of that, too.’
‘They don’t get into the morgue in the first place,’ said Doug.
‘Huccome?’ asked Mort.
‘Pronunciation etiquette – it’s in the rule book. If it was just fever they’d get in but with ague as well no can do.’
‘No shit?’ ejaculated Mort.
‘That neither.’ nodded Doug.
Ah, Miguel! What a brilliantly macabre story to return with. I enjoyed the horror very much!
I have missed seeing your updates and prompts, but I'm very uplifted to hear you've had a vacation and that the book is almost finished!
Thanks Rananda!
100mg of a Morgue
“You shouldn’t be alive,” the astounded doctors tell him.
His mother weeps at his bedside as if he has died anyway. His father quashes the pro-athletic expectations he’s had for his son… but Matty knows.
Later, alone, he smashes his water glass with a strange but powerful throw from his left arm.
That night, he paces the hospital corridors, peaking through the grill of the morgue door at the steel drawers where he should be lying. Is his limb there, lonely without him?
He keeps walking. Past security. Through the boom gates. Into the liberating darkness of an unplanned future.
My 100 words of a Morgue
___
As soon as I entered I felt an icy, chilling energy. This is a place where even the future is dead. The half-lit lamps painted the skin-colored amber.
The only things that move are a few flies that seem to enjoy this spooky place. I lay down, face up. The bed I lay on was made of cold, dense metal, emanating a chill that ran through me. The white sheet covering me... wait!
You're in the morgue, you're dead!!! You're lifeless! The only thing that lives is your awareness that you're dead. Death doesn't hurt. What hurts is knowing death.
Morgue – 100mg
She looked across the dark lake. The night was cold. Silent. Like a morgue she thought but without the bodies. Without that chill of life gone. Without the stillness when the breathing stops. Without the endings. Without the stories left unfinished.
She wiped her nose with her sleeve. She was not going to finish up in a morgue with strangers trying to guess why she'd done it. Her story was unfinished. She smiled calmly, restarted the car and drove back down the hill.
There was more to her story to be told. She was not going to let him win.
Yes! Good for her! I love an empowered retreat from the brink!
Thank you :)
Oh Miguel, that story is amazing. How you took something so macabre and made it so tragic. Brilliant. Glad you had a great holiday and I think you should definitely focus on your novel. We'll all be fine here and hanging round waiting when you've time. And if I get something I will definitely email you my idea :)
Thanks Diane!
do you have a list of past prompts so we don’t repeat? (I love the overdose today btw!)
I'm too much of a walking chaos to have a list of past prompts haha. But I don't think repeating a prompt (which can be adjusted if needed) is that much of an issue :)
TOMB OF AT'THUUL
The oaken door creaked open, its crepitation staggering through the undercroft below. Feet clattered down the steps. Huckle carefully lit the tallowed fasces, raised it above his head, and slipped into the void. The depths came alive, their ancient murals and otherworldly hieroglyphs manifesting with each step he took. Through a forest of colonnades and pilasters abutting the vaulted walls, the shadow of a subterranean palazzo revealed its loggias and finely chiseled reliefs. Huckle proceeded, his apprehension consuming him as the lancet vestibule passed overhead, ominously staring down at the mortal penetrating its realm. The walls vanished, his torch ineffective, revealing the true size of the antechamber. But a tiny glint ahead told of his journey’s end. Scurrying toward the giant object, Huckle flung his torch every which way, piecing together the various facets exposing themselves in the light. He came to a center piece and balked. A graphical depiction of At’thuul, the founder of the world’s religion, the purveyor of all knowledge and social structure upon which Huckle’s kingdom built itself, sprawled across the face of the tomb. Inside, lay the remains of the eldest cosmonaut, the alien, to which Huckle paid his respects.
Hey Miguel. Welcome back. Posting here and working on a WIP to publish is definitely challenging. I'm excited to hear more about your novel. Keep up the great work, friend.
It is. It’d be a bit easier if I also didn’t have a creative Day job haha. Thanks for the nice words, Matt
Welcome back 👍🎉👍
MOURGE
I hated death calls where I was called to declare a person dead. Natural cause? Disease? Illness? Murder? Accident? These adventures could be simple and straightforward or gruesome and traumatic. Sure, everyone dies, but the reality is it is loaded with sadness, excruciating anguish, and pain. The mourge is not a welcoming environment at all. It is cold — uncomfortably cold in an eerie, dreary, dankness. Morticians are saints who assist grievous souls in identifying the dead. In the morgue, these masters of frontline grief console souls who wander aimlessly, dazed in dripping and oozing grief.
Welcome back, Miguel. I hope you had a wonderful vacation.
100mg - Morgue
Here's to another Final Destination movie being released
________________________________________________________________
They cheated death on Highway 57—five teens, one lucky escape from a flaming wreck that should’ve killed them all.
But luck has limits.
Two days later, Darius's body turned up at the morgue, every bone shattered from an easy fall.
Then Mario died in his locked car, lungs full of water, no water nearby.
Panic set in.
They weren’t meant to survive.
One by one, death came, cruel and creative.
Jakobi stared at the names on the morgue log, his next.
The lights flickered.
A breeze skimmed his neck.
He ran, but death doesn’t chase—it waits.
And it never misses.
Welcome back , Miguel !
I remember the Vietnam War and the bodies that returned almost every day to Dover, Delaware. I was young but there was a morgue there for returning dead soldiers to " fix " them up before they were sent to their respective American homes for burial. My cousin went to Vietnam and returned a victim of Agent Orange . He is dead almost 14 years now. While, I, who protested the war and saw when North Vietnam returned computer parts when they took over Saigon in 1975, live on.
There is no greater horror than the loss of lives in war. As Putin continues to assault Ukraine and our current government sides with him, how can any made-up horror compete?
I am sick with disgust and loathing.
Thank you ,Rananda!
Thank you ,the Ink Rat !
Thank you , Gerard!
Thank you , Charlotte H. BABB!
Thank you, Izzibella !
Thank you Scott!
Thank you , Jeannine