Promptober 2020: Day #20

Prompt

Dramatize the backstory of an NPC your D&D players will meet.

Source: Me

Story Stats

# of Words1900
# of Drafts1
GenreFantasy
Hours1

Story Summary

Hlin Trollbane, a grizzled mercenary, gets her asked kicked by a bunch of young thugs, and she contemplates what her age means for her current job to take down the serial killer, Sephek Kaltro.

Promptober 2020: Day #19

Prompt

Write a one-sentence story.

Source: r/thedailyprompt

Story Stats

# of Words82
# of Drafts3
GenreFantasy
Hours1

Story

“Oh very well,” Sephia, the Demoness of Delectable Delights, said, impatiently snatching from a young baker the offered ringed pastry drizzled with some sort of glossed brown substance, “and because your mewling amuses me, I will give this last morsel a bite before incinerating everyone for failing to provide an adequate”—sweet, fluffy, airy, decadent, delectable, perfection—”offering . . . this, this delicious offering shall suffice for today, and maybe, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, for all the other days I visit?”

Promptober 2020: Day #18

Prompt

Write a story where a character eavesdrops on a private conversation.

Source: r/thedailyprompt

Story Stats

# of Words1363
# of Drafts1
GenreFantasy
Hours1

Story Summary

Wedged under her brother’s bed, Melina eavedrops on her parents in the kitchen below. Her Papa argues she shouldn’t be allowed to go off to the city to learn while her Momma argues the opposite.

Promptober 2020: Day #16

Prompt

Write a piece of flash fiction using what you’ve learned about the MICE quotient. Choose a who, where, genre, and object to center your story around.

Source: Mary Robinette Kowal

Story Stats

# of Words417
# of Drafts2
GenreFantasy
Hours1

Story Summary

Who: Witch
Where: Potion Shop
Genre: Fantasy
Object: Cauldron

Greta just can’t quick get this potion mixture right, even after one-hundred and sixteen attempts. Perhaps the one-hundred and seventeenth attempt will succeed?

Promptober 2020: Day #14

Prompt

Start a story with this line: Alice tried to remember who had given her the key.

Source: www.creativewritingprompts.com prompt #309

Story Stats

# of Words2988
# of Drafts1
GenreGeneral
Hours3

Story Summary

Alice finds a key stashed away in the kitchen’s junk drawer, but thanks to her irritatingly failing mind, she can’t for the life of her remember who gave her the key. She does however remember the key goes to a small, wooden box stored in the attic on the third floor of her home. Fighting against her frail, shaking body, Alice goes on a trek to ascent to the top of her home to uncover the mystery of the key.

Promptober 2020: Day #13

Prompt

Write a story that begins with a countdown.

Source: r/thedailyprompt

Story Stats

# of Words434
# of Drafts3
GenreGeneral (flash-fiction)
Hours1.75

Story

ANJALI

“TEN!”

We run, darting into the forest, our hands clasped together. Mine is sweating. So is hers.

“NINE!”

Dozens of us are racing through the trees. Someone—the jerk, Billy—bursts from behind an elm, crossing our path. My feet skid along the dirt, and Anjali falters into my back. I scowl at Billy, but he is already dashing off further into the woods, smirking over his shoulder. 

“EIGHT!”

I peer at Anjali. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks flushed. I tighten my grip. “Come on!”

We continue our sprint. My lungs are already burning. Anjali puffs high pitched spurts of breath behind me. 

“SEVEN!”

Everyone else was scrambling to get away, running off on their own. It’s everyone for themselves. Anjali and I are the only ones escaping together.

I refuse to abandon her.

“SIX!”

We race across a clearing, hop over a fallen log, and sprint across an old dirt road.

“Five!”

I vault over a berry bush, but the world doesn’t rise to meet me. 

I fall, bike-kicking through the air.

Anjali gasps. 

My feet touch the ground, slipping across the smooth, mud-cracked creek bed in opposite directions. My arms flail, and I lose hold of Anjali. My shoulder and head smack into the ground. The world goes black as I yell in shocked pain.

“Four.”

Hands tug my shirt near my shoulders. I open my eyes and Anjali’s deep brown ones stare back. Her long, scraggly brown air cascades toward me. 

“Up!” she shouts and heaves me to my feet. She grasps my hand. “We have to keep moving!”

“three . . .”

She runs and pulls me with her. She refuses to leave me. I smile. 

We scramble up the opposite embankment and dive through the bushes. We emerge onto a road. Anjali tugs me to the left.

“We’re almost there, Aisha,” she says.

“two . . .”

We sprint across the street to an old two-story house on the corner and hop the fence into the backyard. An ancient oak tree looms above us. A rope ladder leads up into the lush branches. Anjali scrambles up first. I follow closely.

“one . . .”

We push through the trapdoor and sprawl onto the old red and tan rug lying in the treehouse’s main area. Staring up at the splintered wood ceiling, we gasp for breath over and over again. I look at Anjali. She’s covered in sweat and her hair is a tangled mess.

“ready or not, here we come!”

“We made it,” I whisper, clutching her hand. 

She smiles and giggles erupt out of her. She looks at me, and says conspiratorially, “They’ll never find us here.”