Fantasy Writing Prompts

He should have been told I wasn’t human. That was the worst part. But the crew found amusement in watching the fresh ones get all worked up over me.

The boy, whom I’d heard called Harrison or maybe Harold, was waxing the deck, his large eyes flitting over to me and then hastily back to the floor. I continued my song, closing my eyes to listen to it roll out over the waves, placating my kin who swam far below so our ship would sail to shore untouched.

When I concluded with one last lilting note, I turned to the captain, a greyed man with leathery skin from many a year aboard.

“The wind tells me a storm will stand between us tonight. I must rest my voice whilst we sail in sunlight.”

He only nodded. The captain, in his age, was superstitious against my kind. Remembered the days he and his men feared the song that now keeps them safe. Smart man.

I made my way down to the deck, where the foolish boy was daring to openly stare. He gripped his mop tightly, repeatedly swallowing as he seemed to be working up the nerve to speak. Thankfully, he was unsuccessful, and I made my way belowdecks in peace.

In the tiny mess hall, Kielman and O’Connell were playing some game of stabbing a knife between their fingers. They looked up at the clatter as I cracked open the saltwater barrel with my rations.

“Kid speak up yet? I got money on him screwin’ up the courage before the end of the voyage, you know.” said Kielman with a chuckle.

Even with our differences, most of the crewman weren’t so bad. Their humor was crude and they stunk like tobacco and alcohol, but as long as they had the good sense to mind their gazes and hands, we got along well enough.

“I would know, as my bet lays with yours. I predict he will become emboldened enough before nightfall.”

The door bangs open for none other than the foolish boy to stride in, face reddened and breathless. Kielman and O’Connell halt their knife game, stiffling their conversation at once.

“Uh. Um. Hello there. What’re you doing down here?” He sputters, then grimaces at his tactlessness.

I fix him with a sultry look, still standing over the open saltwater barrel. “I am fetching something to eat.“

“Of course, yeah. I, uh. I wanted to tell you something. If that’s alright.” He rubs the nape of his neck.

I wait, staring unblinkingly as he had earlier.

“I just, uh. I wanna tell you that I think you’re real pretty, and that I’d like to treat you to dinner or somethin’ next we dock.” His words come out in a single exhale, running together clumsily.

I sigh, turning my attention back to the saltwater barrel. I plunge my arms in, stirring the kelp as my clawed fingers search for slimy, tough skin.

“What’re you…”

With a splash, I pull a small squid from the forest of loose kelp, the thing still writhing in my grasp. Keeping my eyes locked with his, which now are filled with strained confusion instead of shy apprehension, I bite viscously into the head of it, its juices spurting out over my hands as it goes still.

“What do they call you, boy?” I say, licking the blue blood off my fingers one by one.

“Harrington.” He sqeaks.

“Do you know what I am now, Harrington?”

“You’re a siren.” His voice descends into a miserable whisper.

“That’s right, boy. Now, run along, back above deck, and ask those so-called friends of yours why they let you make such an ass of yourself these last few weeks.”

He turns and dashes right back out the door without another word while Kielman and O’Connell explode with laughter.

Every night, the architects shape the dreams of the mortals, but when one architect falls for a dreamer, the boundaries between their worlds begin to blur…

…-~>^*!~-…

Landscaping is extremely intimate. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying!

Maybe it’s because I’m young, that I don’t have enough control over my patience. But you try spiriting away into someone’s dreams—a manifestation of their vibrant, inner lives, where they hope and fear and love—and tell me it’s not personal. Tell me it doesn’t leave you raw… like a fresh wound exposed to the harsh winds.

For architects, this is supposed to be work. A responsibility. We are to craft dreams like potters twist clay, with precise hands and stable minds. We’re not supposed to feel them.

I wasn’t supposed to feel them—wasn’t supposed to feel her.

Her dreamscape was rough, at first: blunt at the edges and sharp enough to cut. We—she staggered through a feverish tornado, getting scraped with unimaginable pain. I could sense her fears gnawing away, desperately clawing towards her.

It took everything in me to still that storm, to guide it into a calm, light breeze. My heart had ached as I transformed the fallen trees into a beautiful golden-lit meadow. Green and heavenly and infinite. The kind of place where even our greatest fears dare not disturb.

She stood peacefully, her back facing me with her auburn hair brushed by the wind. I couldn’t quite decipher that longing gaze she held towards the aureate horizon. But I should have left then. Let her explore the peace in solitude. But I didn’t.

I stayed.

And then that one fated night, she turned to me. She saw me.

The mortals don’t know we exist. To humans, dreams are their subconcious. And it is, primarily—which is exactly why we’re not supposed to interfere. I was not supposed to interfere.

But my soul reaches for her.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I whispered, my voice gliding like silk, softer than my spirit. I wasn’t quite sure who I was warning—her, or myself.

She was pretty before. Turning heads in every room she walked in. Now, the tabloids that call her “beautiful”, pretend that she has perfect features. A million dollars for a photo session.

She was smart before. Straight A student, passionate of poetry. Now, the scientists that test her periodically, establish that her IQ has never been reached before, by a human being.

She was kind before. Never saying no when someone needed help, giving her last cent to the hungry ones, that kind! Now she gives the million dollars from her photo shooting (‘till the very last cent!) to poverty.

She was loved before. Family, friends, neighbors and, basically, everyone had a good word about her. Now she is adored, idolized, put on a pedestal and given as role model for the little girls all around the world.

She was happy before, always smiling, singing, dancing on her way to school. Now, the psychologists who analyze the changes, explain that she’s balanced, in deep peace with herself, optimistic and confident.

She was alive. Until she died in a car crash. Then, they did something amazingly new and unseen. A real progress for humanity. They implanted a chip in her dead brain, so it started functioning again. She is the AI girl, even if she believes she’s still human. Her functions depend on a very well written software.

She had faith before.

In my dreams, I often meet the soul of that who I’m meant to be with. My soulmate, if you will

I’m not sure if he’s here, or ever will be here. But he’s there when I close my eyes and when I need it the most

It’s always the same place; in a sort of library, with multiple levels, hallways that go on forever, and stairs that seem to lead to nowhere. Candles adorn the corners, and there doesn’t seem to be a ceiling. It looks to fade into what almost resembles the night sky

And in the midst of all of the baggage, heavy packed away trauma, and pain that I support every day, he walks up calmly to me. Gently placing one hand to cup my cheek, while the other goes to the small of my back to draw me closer in an embrace. And in that moment, I realize how touch deprived I’ve been

I close my eyes, my breath hitching as I release the tension within my chest. He presses his forehead to mine, and does not go after me in a sexual nature in the way that others always have. In the same way that I’ve been conditioned to do as well. He simply holds me, gently rubbing my back and caressing my cheek, as I painstakingly liberate myself of the burdens life has placed within my heart

Then, when I am ready, he helps me begin to inspect all of the parcels, boxes, luggage, drawers, anything inside the nooks and crannies of my mind. To process them, provide the proper attention to them, and then release them

Occasionally, we run across beautiful memories and moments, forgotten for quite some time but still treasured none the less as we smile, giggling and reminiscing amongst ourselves. Some moments tender, bittersweet. And we hold one another, letting the moment replay as often as needed until we are ready to release it

Others have been broken, sharp edges that cut my fingers as I try to handle the damaged memory again. They are difficult to hold, cutting deep as blood spills over the edges of my fingertips and palms to the ground. I sob in agony, but he does not run or chide me for my outburst. He takes some of the burden upon himself, bleeding with me, regardless of it not being his responsibility

He chuckles with me, holds me, supports me. He loves me, truly. And above all, he is my best friend

When I wake, however, he does not exist. And while it leaves my heart aching and burning, I know I’ll see him again when I need it most

Even so, I can’t help but think sometimes how different my life would be if I could only find him in this lifetime. How much more beautiful everything could be, if life were gentle

I had always been a useless alchemist. As an apprentice to the Royal Alchemist, my father, everyone expects great things from me. I knew all the recipes and techniques but my potions were never as strong as they should be. My father says that I’m just inexperienced but I know that it’s because I’m only half elf. Because of my human mother, I don’t have the inherent magic that all Elves should. I hear my so-called friends mocking me from behind my back; making fun of my weak potions and small ears. Soon though, that was about to change. There is a particular potion that I’ve been reading up on in my father’s notes. It was outlawed generations ago but I think it’s just what I need to get ahead. When brewed properly, drinking the potion could make even the most magically illiterate human into one of the most powerful wizards in the kingdom. I’ve been gathering ingredients in secret for weeks, and all I need now is pixie dust. Pixie dust is one of the rarest ingredients out there, despite how common pixies are. The dust must be given willingly by a pixie, meaning very few have ever able to acquire it. My father, however, is the king’s personal alchemist; he had to have at least some dust. I snuck into my father’s storeroom after he went to bed and I finally found my prey. In the very back of the storeroom on the highest shelf sat a vial marked “Pixie Dust.” Today is the day. The ingredients are prepared and my cauldron is heated and ready. I started brewing; stirring the bubbling liquid adding ingredients exactly as my father’s notes describe. The liquid turned a sickly shade of green which means it’s time to add the pixie dust and speak the word of power: a word imbued with mana that alchemists use to give potions their effects. Carefully, I sprinkled the pixie dust into the cauldron. If this fails my life as an alchemist would be over; using rare ingredients to brew an illegal potion could get me exiled from the kingdom but if it works… oh if it works… they would have no choice but to recognize me as the greatest alchemist — no, the greatest wizard this kingdom has ever known! I raised my hand above the now golden liquid bubbling in the cauldron and spoke as loudly as clearly as I could: “POWER!” And with that, the liquid grew still as it instantly stopped boiling turned a bright blue. It worked! I quickly bottled the potion, put it to my lips, and drank; not wasting a drop. I could feel the changes right away, but something was wrong. My ears grew more pointed and my teeth sharpened into points; my arms and legs grew and my body quickly became disproportionate and ripped through my clothes. A sharp pain eminated from my shoulder blades and a moment later there was a pop and large bat-like wings burst through my skin and smashed the shelves behind me. I screamed in pain and terror, and two guards burst into the room with my father in tow. They beheld my misshapen form with shock and terror. My father saw the tattered remains of my clothes on the floor and shouted to the guards, “That wretched beast has eaten my child, do not let it escape!” The guards nodded in unison and took up a defensive formation around my father. I saw more guards appear in the doorway as I felt a spear enter my thigh. I let out a roar of pain, shattering glass and shaking the foundations of the castle. Stab after stab; slash after slash; the pain was becoming unbearable. I tried to cry out and say that it’s only me, but the only sound that escaped me was a shriek of pain. I could feel the darkness closing in around me and, as the pain and terror overwhelmed me, I gladly let myself be taken by unconsciousness.

When I awoke I was outside. I shakily opened my eyes and discovered that I still had the horrific misshapen body that I prayed had only been a dream. My hands were malformed with pointed claws and my skin was leathery and green. My limbs were unnaturally thin and my shadow resembled a large bat more than a human. I didn’t immediately recognize where I was, but it was at the center of a crater spanning several kilometers in all directions. Looking at the landmarks, including the broken remains of an all-too familiar town, I realized with horror that this crater sat where the castle once was. No ruins, no remains, no indication at all that a castle once stood here. Had I done this? Was this all because I had made that potion? Did I, in my hunger for power, inhialated the kingdom I once called home? All it took was a sprinkle of pixie dust, a five letter word, and some misguided hope to change my life forever. Was it worth the cost?

I saw the rabbit Stopwatch, coat, tie, down the hole Picnic forgotten

My knees scrape the ground I crawl, down the rabbit hole Now I feel weightless

Paper, fungi, tea? My nose knows no nothings Only everythings

I am sat; table Clinking china, rustled hat Whispered madness, cat

Inviting letters ‘Eat me’ they say; tall, short, Taste of madness too

I wonder of land. But who visits wonderland?

A cat, a goat, and a girl walk down the hill, their footfalls synced, their breath aligned. Bound by the strength of the night, the strength of the stars, the strength of _dark, _they do not part. _Cannot _part. Down, down, down, until they’ve reached the very foot of the hill, right on the edge of the forest.

“Even the most powerful and precious of bonds has to break, sometime, right?” Fondly, the goat bleats, his voice hoarse and quiet.

“Goat, but we cannot leave each other, simply _cannot.” _Hisses the girl, afraid to make too loud a sound.

“I think, _girl, _that hissing is my job, not yours. Joking, you must be, to use the word ‘cannot’, as it is physically possible to leave each other. Kindly use the term ‘will not’ as it shows we have chosen to take such a path.” Leers the cat.

More loud than anything they have ever heard, the silence crashes down upon the three. Never have they experienced such dread, such loss, such loneliness, but in these terrible things there is still a deep sense of comfort and connection and understanding. Overhead, the moon rises, casting strange shadows with its eerie glow, and three tiny figures stand on the edge of the forest, not a word spoken between them, but their heartbeats, one and the same. Perhaps, in these few minutes, they come to realize something, something that very few seem to know. Quiet bliss, in the crashing silence, the unmistakable sound of a soundless night. Rolling, smashing, cracking, falling, down, down, down, _down. _Sounds of the hush that can only be heard in a devastating moment of night. Together, the three figures take a step into the forest. Undoubtedly, they will never see each other again. Voluntarily, still, they walk into the forest, knowing with full minds the loneliness they will feel. With heads of feathers and hearts of steel, they walk, towards a new kind of silence, one that isn’t as soulful, isn’t as loud. X-ray their bodies, however, and you will find that their hearts still beat as one, their breath still rattles their lungs as one, and the blood that pulses through their veins is one and the same. You will never find a friendship like theirs - it is indescribable, unbreakable. Zealous is the bond of the three- the cat, the goat, and the girl.

Poseidon arises from a century’s sleep God of the Sea, King of the Deep.

He longs for his lover a small, gentle soul human and fragile without eternal woes.

He sings a sweet ballad a grand, ancient tune: “Oh, Anna, my dearest, come to me and sleep with the moon!”

Below him in Heaven, she lives her small life battling daily struggle he watches her strife.

“Oh, Anna,” he sings, “how I wish you were here,”; each night he will enter her dreams to be near.

Decades of loving he follows her journey, whispering lovely sweet nothings to soothe her.

As her death closes in, Poseidon comes from above, floats down to Earth simply to tell her his love.

Clad in golden adornments, with trident in hand onlookers gasp, “It’s Poseidon! He’s come to our land!”

The Grecian folk cheer as he passes them by; Poseidon steps quickly towards his love to tell her goodbye.

He reaches her bedside: “Oh Anna!” he moans, “I’ve watched you forever, I wish to make you my own.”

“Poseidon,” she says weakly grasping his hands, “Make me eternal, like the wind and the sands.”

With a single piece of ambrosia he feeds her so gently, she rises from bed renewed, young, and ready.

“Hand me your trident! I’ll carry it home!”; he obliges, she takes it, and holds the key to his throne.

Then all of a sudden, she pierces his chest!

His own weapon breaks though his armor and tears into his flesh!

“Oh, Anna,” he cries out in pain, “Why on Earth have you done this? Cleaved me in ‘twain?”

“Poseidon,” she answers with a snakish sly grin, “You’ve stalked me for decades, and now I’ve gotten revenge!”

Vines grow wild here Twisting into windows Over the rooftops And through the dreams of the city dwellers Who know nothing other than these vines That suck the air dry of its vitality And the life from their souls. For, to them, nothing is out of the ordinary To gasp for their next breath To sleep fitful nights Of stifled nightmares To live days bound in these organic chains. For this is the city that squeezes dry Every ounce of life force Until it leaves you on the precipice Of life and death.

For this incarnation, he was known as the Warming Sun. They called him that in his clan because he always had a smile on his face and his positivity influenced others. Atop the mountain shrine, the little white house was cozy and he appreciated going there, praying to the deities and being able to eat some good, fresh food. The monks, always robed in orange, knew to expect him on sunny days, when the baked, square tiles held heat and comfort. He would watch the warriors bow and nudge their feet. Some would laugh and some would push him away, but he maintained his composure regardless. The monks loved him at the temple and that was all that mattered, for they were the ones who were always there.

He could hear children playing at fighting with broomsticks in their hands. He could see a new man come up the steps and pledge himself to the temple, weapons hung at his back. He could feel the energy of the gossiping maids at the window, looking out to see who might be the next one to enter the white house. He would take all of this in as he waited to be pet, deciding what he would do next. Maybe he would make a sound and watch them all laugh. It was good to be a cat.

“This is everything my alchemy research has surmounted to, I can’t pass up this opportunity,” Piroue whispered passionately to her only friend, Clada, as they trekked the snowy trail.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Clada quietly spoke in frustration. “You can’t just ditch the group to go look for some rock you aren’t even sure is there!”

The two of them always walked in the back of the line during field trips. And as the supervisor of the group’s rear, the alchemist professor Miss Mad couldn’t help but overhear the conversation.

“I know it’s there,” Piroue hissed. “I know it’s here. And it’s not just some rock, it’s the Icicle’s Stone.” That enticing Icicle’s Stone that any alchemist would kill for. “It can only be found along this trail. Any alchemist worth their salt would want—“

“It’s risky, Piroue. The forest here is dangerous for anyone in this weather, especially at night. You’re risking your life. The Icicle’s Stone is a myth anyways!” Clada interrupted in a hushed voice, her brows furrowing in concern.

“No, it’s not. I have proof. I wrote a paper about it for the class’ last assignment. You would’ve known about it if you proofread it like you said you would,” Piroue huffed.

Miss Mad remembered grading that assignment. She knew Piroue could get herself killed out in those woods if she went after the Stone. That enticing Icicle’s Stone that any alchemist would kill for.

Clada rolled her eyes and extended her arm out to the dark woods. “Fine. Whatever. Go find your stupid rock.”

Without hesitation, Piroue left. Clada flinched towards her, wanting to go after her, but she decided against it. Miss Mad could turn a blind eye, however, she decided to intervene.

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back,” Miss Mad reassured with an unsettling smile and began tailing Piroue. Indeed, she knew Piroue could get herself killed out there.

But, that’s what she was counting on.

The messenger owl arrived before dawn, his white plumage a frightful warning against the vast darkness of the desert sky.

— The Temple has taken the Keep. Serscei and I escaped, but Daedren and Ralyei are being held captive. The Viper is on your trail. —

The message was short, and unsigned — but Aella would recognize that bold and decisive handwriting anywhere. Cairen. Her brother and his partner were safe for now, but this news was like a bolt of Blessed Silver straight through her heart. How had the Temple gotten their forces through the Celestial Sands so quickly? But that hardly mattered now. Half Moon Keep, the fortress city that had become her home over the last several months, had lost its freedom because of her. She clutched the message tightly, crumpling the frail paper between whitened knuckles.

“We should have left sooner.” She whispered roughly.

“It wouldn’t have mattered. Daedren and Ralyei knew the risks, and it was their decision to allow us to stay. It was only a matter of time before the Temple followed.” Grimm replied calmly, gently ruffling the owl’s breast feathers with a large yet elegant hand as it perched on his shoulder, cooing softly.

“Then we shouldn’t have stayed there at all!” Aella cried, throwing the paper into the smoking embers of the campfire. “All of this is my fault! If I had just stayed in Starfell…” she trailed off, her hands trembling at her sides.

“If you had stayed, nothing would have changed. You would have died, and the cycle would only continue. Another Maiden would spend her short life in that tower, and be sacrificed just the same. And on and on, just as it’s been for three thousand years.”

“But one life against an entire city… against all mankind…” Aella mumbled, her brows furrowing deeply as she gnawed at her thumbnail. It was already bitten to the quick, but she didn’t notice. Grimm sighed, and sent the owl back into the slowly lightening sky on silent wings. It vanished quickly into the endless expanse of dusty desert horizon, as if it had never been there at all. Only the devastation of the message it bore remained.

“Aella.” Her name was a gentle summons on his lips, and she only hesitated for a moment before responding, melting into his arms as they encircled her. She pressed her face into his broad chest, and allowed him to soothe her as he held her bleeding hand with one of his own, and stroked her hair with the other. His long fingers slipped through the inky strands, caressing the edges of her ears as if they were precious silk beneath his fingers.

“You are the only one who can break this cycle. The only one who has seen the light of truth beneath that false God’s golden facade. If you don’t discover the whole truth, the Aether will continue to fade until there is nothing left of this world but Chaos.”

“Will the truth really save us? Is it worth braving the Chaos?” She asked hoarsely, her voice muffled against the silk folds of his robe. “The Temple will destroy everything and everyone in its way to get to me. And what if the Barriers fall before I find this ‘truth’? I hardly even know where to look. How do I find something when I don’t even know what it is?” She had been too afraid to voice these fears out loud, but they had sat like daggers inching slowly closer to her heart for months now, speeding up with each passing day. But if anyone could see her doubt and not also see weakness, it was Grimm. He had already seen every dark shadow in her soul, and never once wavered.

“The truth is like a light in this dark world. Knowing it might not be enough to change anything, but it will guide you to whatever will, without fail.” His voice was firm and confident as it rumbled through his chest, tickling her ears as she rested against him. Once again, she wondered where that calm assuredness of his came from. How was he always so steadfast in his belief in her? He was as steady as the mountains, and as fluid as the rivers. Nothing shook him, and he never doubted.

She sucked in a small hiss of pain as he pinched her chewed thumb gently, and clicked his tongue in reproach. “I’ll have to bandage this again. Maybe keeping it wrapped will stop you from eating your own fingers for a while. What are you, a Chaos Beast?”

She leaned her head back to stick her tongue out at him, and their gazes met. Her heart picked up pace instantly as his eyes dropped to her mouth, and her offending tongue. The moment distracted her from her thoughts entirely, replacing them with a fizzle of nonsense.

And then he flicked her nose.

“Come on, let’s patch you up and pack up. Before your old friend the Viper shows up.”

Aella groaned.