Writing Prompt

WRITING OBSTACLE

Write a short story or paragraph in passive voice only.

The passive voice places emphasis on the thing rather than the person doing the thing: e.g. “The book was read” rather than “She read the book”.

Writings

Head Ringer

Rain droplets crashed against his face. “ Why did you bring me here?” The hooded figure looked up. They gazed into each others eyes. “ I figured I would get you as close to heaven as I could. Before I sent you to hell.” They were miles in the air. On top of the tallest building of Silicon City. A beaming metropolis of tomorrow. The stranger stood up and looked out onto the city. The bustling light shone dimly against it’s face. They were so high up that the lights themselves could barely reach them through the fog below. The city was expansive and reached farther than the eye could see. Even from atop the tallest building one could not see the entire city. However, in that moment, it was just them. The thick fog that covered the city reduced their visibility to just the tower top. It seemed as if this place was all there was. Nothing beyond except a dark fog. The hooded figure turned back around with an in-human grin. Cybernetic teeth and dim green eyes. “This is where our game ends! Here below the very heavens! I will make my sins known to God Himself!” “ You are batshit insane!” “ Sanity has no place in a world without limits!” They stared each other down for a moment. They knew what was going to come next. A single shot rings out. A single case bounces in the rain covered floor. The hooded figure falls to their knees. Looking up one last time, they never let go of their grin. The figure pulls out a detonator. Several more shots are put into the figure. They do not even flinch. With a wicked grin the figure pushes the detonator. The gleaming tower of silicon city was lain to ruin.

The Poet

Subject 31, gender: 2nd variety; weight: 2.3 purze; age: post pubescent

It pretends to sleep. How strange these creatures are? So different from us, weird and grotesque, their tiny eyes and stubby appendages. Dr. Curos house Le says they are primitives, merely reactive creatures. But to pretend is to have awareness of self and others. My house Cru is low borne but we know what we do not know. It is not for me to question. Yet. My instruments sit in order by function and process. Order is good. There is a sublime beauty in order and purpose. This research could unlock untold mysteries. Light level of surgery room rise. The specimen is immobilized. Sweat beads on its head. Dr. Curos says it is wasteful to use anesthesia on primitives. Heart rate rises. The body trembles under my hands. Studies have shown test subjects experience minor physical pain and no memory of experiments. Yet what if our definition of pain and memory don’t apply on this planet with these creatures. Is it cold? Could it be afraid? The surgery room temperature is raised to four hilds of the specimen’s natural blood temperature. It is not for me to question. The first incision is made. Samples are collected. Certification initiated. The eyes of the specimen are open watching me. Questions leak from its eyes. Note to GX headquarters revise specimen’s age to pre-pubescent. Not appropriate for further testing at this time. Tag and release. It is large for its age. What if it remembers holding pain in its brain in a way we don’t understand. Dose of analgesic and sedative administered. Its eyes close in sleep. ItS weird looking head is petted by my hand. The specimen is prepped by the extraction team. My tools stand ready. Dr. Curos will be displeased. She will call me a poet. My tools stand ready for subject 32.

Musings Of A Crow

Seeds had been thrown onto the floor, dispersed by a hand wrinkled with age.

Laces had been tied. A double knot—secure. Yet, as the soles crunched the gravel, a frayed tie had come loose. It dragged along behind, snaking in the dirt, and the once-white lace had been transformed, wiggling into a yellow-dusted worm.

Wings of black silk had flapped excitedly at the sight as the scattering of arid seeds had soon all been forgotten.

Taloned feet inched forward as the crow waddled forward, past his fellow murder members, and toward the succulent, wriggling morsel.

The disguised lace was pecked and prodded as the crow snapped open his beak. But no sweet juices flowed, and no pink flesh tore, and a foot was stomped impatiently on the cotton imposter.

“Oh!” A shower of seed suddenly escaped the woman's hand, sprinkling over the crow. “My laces have been untied,” she said. “Were you trying to warn me, young one?”

Two avian feet were bounced backwards, and the crow gave a startled cawed.

Thin lines creased at the edges of the woman's eyes, and a mouth was shaped by a chip-toothed grin. “I knew you were. Here...”

In a tilt of the crow's head and the blink of a beady eye—something had been pulled from the woman’s bag. A brown paper package had been held out, the string untied. The wrapping was delicately unfolded, and a squark croaked as its contents became apparent to the crow:

Boiled eggs.

“A thank you for your troubles.” The lace was tucked securely back into the shoe, and the egg was placed before the crow.

A thought of guilt was momentarily present in the crow's mind, for the aim hadn't been to aid the woman but to satisfy his grumbling gizzard.
Yet, as the crow blinked, the sunny, golden yolk and sulphuric tang soon pecked away those troubles and the egg was devoured before his fellow family had even raised their heads.