Writing Prompts

There's only two rules; it has to be a thousand words, and you have to enjoy it. Obviously, if we don't get something done; it's not going to be so much of a shocker but just try your best, alright?
One thing however - don't feel compelled to take the perspective I've presented you with; make your own. Change it up! Make it bizarre - give me your interpretation.

1. What would happen if an asteroid struck Earth? Any perspective is permitted, any ideals, any time-zone.
2. Romance. Sad - happy? Your choice!
3. Pick a genre and and write an interpretation of your favourite fairy tale! Twisted fairy tales are simply the best.
4. The most amazing room in the world... and you, or someone you know has access to it. Ensue; a story!
5. What happened when Pandora opened the box? Bring on the horror; the romance, whatever you feel like this week!
6. A story from the perspective of evil. Any evil; a person, a sin, a deed. Reason it out; show whether it is ridiculous or makes sense.
7. Controversial issues. Not something necessarily that you agree on that no else does; but a topic that causes a lot of arguments within your country, your friends, your family.
8. Pushed into the dystopian future. What's happening - when are you? As abstract as you want or even as detailed.
9. The creation of the world. Were you present? Someone you know? Did they get pictures? Any perspective; any ideologies, so on and so forth.
10. Are you worth it? A story about someone's self-worth, of someone's conflict or assurance.
11. Steam Punk - what's your perception of steam punk? Here's a sentence to start you off; 'Dragons stalk the street, puffing out smoke and clattering their mechanical wings'. Use it within your story or as an inspiration.
12. Out into the universe. There's so much - quasars, neutron stars, science, emotions.
13. Adopt a suicidal mind frame. Tell your story through the perspective of someone else or the suicidal person themself. Reason out their thoughts; is it truly valid?
14. A life lesson.
15. "It hurts because it matters."
16. Tell a story through an inanimate object. What does the door think of the weeping child? What does the laptop feel about its abusive owner?
17. You wake up one morning and everyone's missing. There are no life forms to be found; it's you, only you wandering through your life.
18. "Out of the corner of your eye, you see a shadow. Yet when you turn swiftly, there's nothing to be found for it."
19. You're shipwrecked on another planet. The rest of your crew had died; you had just managed to make it. Is this planet habitable? Is it already inhabited? By what - or who?
20. Super secret missions. Did you accidentally walk into one or were you already involved?
21. Telling a story of you or someone you know getting a complete stranger to smile. To laugh. To feel proud about living.
22. What if the currency was made up of memories? How does this work? Do you lose them? Do they have to be material? Who would be the true beggars of the world? Would discrimination still exist via social class?
23. You're at school when there's suddenly an alarm; someone or something has broken it. Fantasy or reality. Sadness or happiness. What's it to be?
24. You meet yourself. Someone meets themself. Any perspective. Yet old and new must collide.
25. An invention. A good invention? A bad invention? Your choice; your story.
26. Losing your mind. What happens when your friend starts to get distanced? When they mean the world to you? Optimism or pessimism?
27. Something in second person. Make it creepy; make it funny. Yet it's a new style.
28. Slightly cliched - the world ending. Does it happen - how? Why? Who?
29. If humans were solitary creatures. If friends were ridiculously difficult to make. If you had no relationships that really mattered.
30. A heterophobic world. Inspired by http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=3ROXTFfkcfo
31. Who are the real monsters? Fantasy, realistic, romantic, whichever.
32. There's a forbidden wall. What's beyond it? Will cowardice keep you away from it?
33. Disappearances. What's really out there? Or is it simply kidnappings yet again?
34. Someone you could save if you'd sacrifice yourself. Is sacrificing yourself to something that will bring you pleasure that bad though?
35. Living underneath the water. Humans or unbeknownst creatures? Set in...?
36. What if we ran out of water? If it was so precious; so rare that it was common to kill for it?
37. A character from a book comes alive. Theories? What happened - what will happen with this character? Is it possible to return them?
38. You find a male in your bed upon returning home. Quite attractive, dangerous eyes, and a deadly smirk. Hate at first sight? Reactions?
39. "Look at what you made me do..."
40. A perfect world. How would it work? Is it really so perfect?
41. War rages around you. More of a free-style story, yet you're given a backdrop.
42. A fanfiction. Yes, we do need to indulge. Is there a familiar blue box in your backyard? Two strange men knocking on your door about the weird noises in your house? Or maybe a detective sticking his unwanted nose into your business? A skeleton? A prodigy?
43. Everytime you dream; you're living someone else's life. There are more bodies than souls. There are three people to one soul these days. It all depends on sleep patterns but are there further implications? Unwanted echoes? Does your society know of this?
44. "It's not wise to reveal your name in this sort of place."
45. What if Earth wasn't run by humans, rather humans were slaves of the true inhabitants?
46. The Bermuda Triangle - fantasy, as opposed to hard, solid facts.
47. Choose one of your favourite photographs from the internet and write about it. Do include the photo, love.
48. A zombie plague; humans becoming cannibals and you're running for your life.
49. Certain places in the world where there is no concept of gravity.
50. The first person in the world who died...
51. A world with an inversion of values. Good is bad, and vice versa.
52. Emotions. Hard, blinding, tear-jerking emotions. Portray them in any way possible.

A Finch

With the secure blanket of darkness smothering the city of Nottingham, a door opened precariously, an urgent hand beckoning a group of inquisitive people into the homestead; a mixture of young and old, female and male. There was only a candle at the table for light, and a boy watched the window, his gaze often slipping towards the alluring moon. He caught the eyes of some of the group as they walked in, his brow rising in judgment as he watched them settle down into a protective formation around the table. The unstable, wooden structure held an apparatus of which the company fawned over in awe and exhilaration of the upcoming event.

Benedict Wallace stood in the shadows observing his audience. A few young maidens were present, tittering nervously as they eyed the glass dome that rested at the top of the device; which could pose a problem for they’d be likely to draw attention to his home. The children giggled as they tugged upon their parents’ clothing; unscarred by the corruptions of the world, but eyes full of curiousity as their sights fell upon the machinery.  The adults themselves were sombre; and for the right reason. If they were caught today, the implications for everyone involved would inhibit the rest of their lives.

“An air pump, it’s called,” Wallace suddenly spoke, startling the audience to yelp with surprise, “They say that it will help us greatly in the future, but today is the future!” His voice had ended on a harsh note, causing the males to frantically nod in agreement.
“What an air pump does, you see, is create an area of low pressure right here by suctioning the air away.” He motioned to the bottom of the apparatus manically, “And that creates a high pressure system within the glass dome that from where the air then flows down to accommodate the air needed to keep the pressure level. But then what happens when there’s no air left? That’s what the scientists of the world puzzle about; the substance that is present when air isn’t. Though there is only one way to determine what it is…” With that dramatic speech out of the way, he turned to a cloaked stand next to him, jerking it off in a gracious flourish. A finch resided within a cage, glaring at them with beady, cold eyes before ramming itself into the bars, and withdrawing with a loud screech of aggravation as it started to preen itself with newfound energy.

The boy at the window looked back, a sneer in his expression as his eyes roved over the open-mouthed spectators, before gazing out again with disdainful eyes. Not paying heed to him, Wallace meticulously removed the air-tight dome before placing the bird within, and hurriedly re-attaching it.
“This is the first time that I’m doing this with an audience,” Wallace announced. “Though most of you have been waiting for this moment of truth. To see whether all the reports that the scientists give us are true. Behold; the experiment of the air pump!” With a loud clank, Wallace flipped the switch, causing a great, guttural grunting of the machinery before it spluttered into life, complaining whilst it started to suck the air, and exhale it with deep, hot breaths.

Indignant gasps filled the air, as the children clung to their parents, and wives buried their faces into their husbands’ shoulders. There was no sound from within the dome, so sight was the only observation upon which many could use. For a while the finch seemed lively enough, its frail wings flapping as it tried to navigate the dome; a mean of escape. After a few minutes though, when the machine was turned off and a stopper placed below the dome to stop the air flow to go back, it began to manifestly droop, appearing drowsy and clumsy as its wings fell limply to its side.

Wallace splayed his hand out, “So what does this dome consist of? Certainly, whatever remains is unable to sustain human life.”
Yet only silence followed as he looked over his audience. The only sound was of a young girl weeping steadily, muffled. Wide eyes were only on the struggling finch, which had now collapsed upon its side, shaking with twitchy breaths, wings futilely stretching. Weaklings, Wallace thought, that they couldn’t stomach an experiment that was vital for knowledge; for the power of being the dominant race. He was so absolutely sure that this was the answer to a stronger world; one filled with mechanical machinery and electricity. Instead of waiting for a hundred years for this evolution, he was determined to bring it crashing upon the world now and be famous for rushing the future; for helping the world to progress swiftly.
“And yet it remains alive for quite a while.” Wallace continued, forgetting his thoughts and disregarding the shocked quiet. Small steps at a time; first he had to convince an elite amount of people before appealing to the government “Does this give us the notion that the animal itself possesses something that keeps it alive?”
One of the men looked up, in shock, “You think so? Really? That was disproved years ago.”
“Animal energy.” Wallace nodded knowingly. “I believe strongly that it is what keeps it alive. You can see the plating here is steel, and what is the bottom? Copper. That is why the heart continues to beat.”
“Your theories are ridiculous.” Another gentleman disputed. “Galvani had tested it on a dead frog. How would it be affecting a living finch? And even as we watch; it grows closer to death, its eyes lidded with the pain and misery of this cruelty you afflict upon it! If only, it disproves your idea.”
“It will stay alive.” Wallace insisted stubbornly. “The animal energy will force it to take shallower breaths, to withhold as long as possible.”

“Eventually, it will run out, won’t it?” The boy at the window challenged, jumping down from his ledge by the window, looking disgustedly at the audience. “This animal energy, if it even exists; there would only be a limited amount.” He had watched Wallace conduct this experiment multiple times before and each time, the animal that was placed within the dome had died. Whatever Wallace was trying to do, he was killing harmless souls, abusing nature; abusing the world.

“Charles, you miscreant –“Wallace started speaking heatedly, his attention focusing on the boy; eyes burning in anger. The little brat had always tried to impose his narrow-minded ideas upon Wallace, but had managed to remain silent on the topic of the air pump. He should have known! Of course, he would have looked down upon it; the boy was simply a coward, unable to understand that to live in today’s world; one needed to make sacrifices on a daily basis. He shouldn’t have taken the little chit in, shouldn’t have kept him alive all these years.

The two men glared heatedly at each other; unaware of anyone else. The tension was palpable, and Charles could see a vein throbbing at Wallace’s forehead, and how he was starting to perspire. All Wallace saw was red; a dark scarlet that surrounded Charles; demanding his blood, and his dignity.
“You’re nothing but useless.” Wallace snarled, his hand rising to smack Charles and he ducked his head, waiting for the striking blow that would push him to the floor; like the countless other times that he’d been sprawled across the hard timbre floor, crying with shuddering breaths for the affection that he had never received. This was his life; but today he was putting a stop to it.

The blow came then, strong and harsh; his body tumbling onto the floor, as Wallace shook himself off with great effort; reining his temper in. Looking up, he saw the people who had originally come to witness the great miracle staring at him horror, some shaking their heads in revulsion.

“Sir Benedict Wallace?” A voice distracted him and he turned to look at the source of the noise; near the open door. Standing there was a man, dressed in a police uniform, his mouth set in an unforgiving line as he noticed the young male on the floor who was groaning in pain, as well as the finch in the air pump that had finally become still. Its body lay awry on the plate, breast upwards, and neck drooping behind its wings. He saw the finch’s eyes, glassy and lifeless, feeling a low sinking feeling as he realised that his rescue was too late; the animal had indeed been murdered.

“Wh – what do you want?” Wallace spluttered, his face red, as he straightened his coat and looked at the officer with a demanding eyebrow.
“A moment, please,” the officer sighed. “Civilians, I’ll require you to evacuate if you wish to not be associated with this man. Of course, we already have your names on record, but you’re being given a generous option here.”
The populace in the room looked at each other in resignation as they made their way out, some relieved, others grumbling about the new-found law.
The officer then put out a hand, picking up the young boy. “Is Benedict Wallace your father, young man?”
Charles shook his head, coughing raggedly as he looked up at the officer. “He’s my guardian.”
Nodding, the man cleared his throat importantly. “As you very well know, in 1876 – just last year – we passed an act as the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. You’ve just acted against the Cruelty to Animal Act Controlling Experimentation, and for that, Mr Wallace, I’m afraid that I do have to arrest you for breaking the law, and apparently abusing your charge as well.”
“It’s for science,” Wallace spat, looking around for an escape. “And he deserves it; just look at the little fool. Ever since the blasted police force has come into existence; you have made my life a living hell! I can’t do anything I want, constantly restrained by these ridiculous laws.”
The officer nodded knowingly, stepping behind him to take his hands, leading him out of the house. “Son, you’ll be alright until we get someone here, right? It’ll only be a day at the most.”
As Wallace was escorted away, expletives bubbling rabidly out of his mouth, he turned to see Charles give him a sarcastic, little wave before slamming the door shut. Growling in frustration, he vowed that one day, the boy would pay for the misfortunes that he had caused.

 Charles, as soon as the door was closed and locked, made his way to the air pump, where he removed the dome and removed the finch gently, placing it on the table. Taking the apparatus that had caused misery for many creatures; he went outside in a sudden rage, smashing it into small shards of metal and glass without a thought. The finch was buried hurriedly, and finally he was able to raid his guardian’s room for the information that had been abstained from him; information that detailed all the aspects of his life; facts that didn’t necessarily determine who he was, but where he came from. That night was spent reading through those papers, curled up in a  warm corner of the room, as tears teased his eyes, dripping steadily as he apprehended what had happened to his family. They hadn’t abandoned him, as he’d been told before in a mocking, taunting voice. They had loved him. They had cared. It was a good thing that he had alerted the authorities of Wallace’s depravity; had realised that his work was an abomination. Otherwise; he ever mightn’t have known about what occurred to his heritage; hadn’t ever learned the truth. 

As for Benedict Wallace, he was convicted for conducting animal experiments for years without a license, and for continuing the practice after the act that had strictly forbidden it had been put into place and thus sentenced to five years of harsh penal servitude.  The two never crossed paths again, much to the bitterness of Wallace who lived out the rest of his life, branded as a criminal.  

My Home

My home is in shambles.

In every town, every street, every corner, blares the constant whimper, whine and wail of every child orphan, piercing the ears of marching enemy soldiers, caterwauls ricocheting against newly polished rifle guns.

My home is in shambles.

What was once a glorious city of porcelain and marble, of gardens and fields, of trees ripe with the fattest fruit, is now a city of smoke and shadow, of bombs and explosions, of broken homes. Chaos smashes all, unbiased and unkind, reigning death and decay with ruthless fists . 

My home is in shambles.

Neighborhoods, homes, families, are in constant cowering. The father valiantly, yet uselessly, tries to protect what is left of his family. His son, stripped bare of his clothes, whipped until the belt gleams scarlet. His daughter, brutally raped, scarred, and beaten, the government issued soldier cracking his fists in loathsome satisfaction. His wife, pregnant, taken for hostage, and never to be heard from again.

My home is in shambles.

And it is all due to a savage man, corrupted and blinded by greed. A greed that, due to his wickedness and disgusting qualities, has marred the population of his nation. My nation. My home.

Remove this man from his position. Send him to court. Put him in jail for his sins, sins that the devil himself might revolt from. Punish him.  

My home is in shambles, and man is to blame. 

Stimulus Fiction 5/02/13

An old woman in her 80's who lost her fiance in 2015 with no children or husband.

The drying sheets danced in the wind. A few metres away, an elderly woman watched with wonder. The self- stimulating generator had made her life a lot easier especially with the loss of body control within her weak self. The one emotion that ran through her as she stood, tears slowly filling up her eyes, was gratitude. She had no one to care for her now; she was alone in the world. Her friends were far and few, and her family; her sister's family moreso had left this continent, determined to put their bad history behind them.
The place reeked of forgotten sorrows as she recalled that fateful day where a simple knock on the door had brought her to her knees, sobbing in anguish and pain. Since then, she'd closed herself up; probably the reason as to why her sister had no grievance against leaving her in this place.
But she'd never leave. She wanted to keep the memories fresh, the scents of the sticky summers alive. She wanted to remember the warm nights under the stars and the startled expressions of faces as they finally understood. Only so short a time ago, she was a young woman, confident in her upbringing, happy with her life. Now, life had taken its toll on her. She was old and faded, hardened and closed. She'd built up the resilience to forget about her past; as difficult as that could be. With her head held up high, she faced the world, unhindered by the emotions that plagued her.

Um. Yes.
~

Stimulus Fiction 4/02/13

I have a couple of these but they are handwritten so I'll have to type them up. Basically the teacher gives us a sentence and an allocated time to write as much as we can. Sometimes she'll give us a perspective to go from.
Curious?
Read on.

This one isn't anything special; it's one that I've encountered before and thus had a firm idea of the emotions I wanted to transfix. I'm simply sharing for the sake of it, not because of its complexity.
~

She recalled the book which ignited her imagination. The thought warmed her belly as her eyes fluttered shut with a sigh. The characters that she was so fond of would never leave her and if their memory ever started to fade, all she had to do was pick the book up and start her adventure afresh.  The emotions that came with the novel thrilled her too. Initially, she's looked upon the book with clear disdain, raising a sceptical eyebrow to her pleading sister. But now? She was completely and utterly hooked. Not regretting a single moment of it. She'd returned to her sister's door; a hesitant fist raised to knock. When she finally had, her sister had answered immediately, smirking in recognition. The afterglow hadn't faded away, her face was still in a large grin.

~

The next one's larger, but keep in mind we are on a time limit. But anyway, that was written in my first English Ext 1 class probably the reason as to why it was so short. Hope it was somewhat enjoyable.
Cal.

MYLES HAS GOTITGOINONNNNN

It was when Emily Leila Faucet dumped the remains of her water bottle on Myles’ scalp that his eyes forced themselves open, irritated anger subsequently replacing his initial shock faster than most people could react.

He gasped and coughed, clutching the very edge of his antique wooden desk for support as he shook the water droplets clinging to the blonde ringlets of his curly hair, making him look not unlike a piqued poodle. And from the corner of his eye he spotted Emily’s arms wrapped around her middle, her entire body shaking with laughter at his rude awakening, and he felt the annoyance in him swell up like the perpetually floating balloon he had invented during his younger years. 

He sighed irritably, sending Emily an icy glare, which she promptly ignored, and spat, “Was that really necessary?”

Emily chuckled, and the sound of her laughter rang through the room like the pleasant sound of morning bells. Myles often thought of the sound of laughter as a prime contributor to his mental list of never ending things that hugely irritated him, but Emily seemed an eloquent exception, and this, he testily thought, was thanks to his ever-active hormones that seemed particularly good at not doing him any favors, especially during his work and research.

Emily sat in the seat opposite him and treated herself to a spin before answering him. “You were asleep on your desk. Again, mind. Can’t keep up with that little hobby of yours, Sleeping Beauty, I’m pretty sure you’ve annoyed the hell out of Professor Primate over there,” she said casually, giving his primitive lab partner a thumbs up. Prof. Primate screeched in agreement, and returned to cleaning his fur from unwanted parasites.  At this she raised her eyebrows pointedly, as if to say, ‘See? Even the monkey agrees with me.’

“No matter,” Myles muttered tiredly, rubbing last night’s exhaustion from his eyes, “A quick cup of tea aught to keep me awake for the next few hours.”

Emily smirked. “I know, which is why I brought you some.”

Myles stared at her in surprise, and he felt a rush of gratitude towards her. How was it that she knew exactly what he wanted exactly when he needed it?

“...You didn’t have to do that,” he managed, giving her a small smile. Emily shrugged, and returned his smile with a dimpled one of her own. “I figured you needed it, what with you canceling all our classes because of your research . . . ” she trailed off, eying the papers strewn all over his workspace. Myles detected the faint hint of disappointment lacing her tone, and his heart panged. He had been canceling their tutoring lessons, but his research wasn’t to blame. It was the tingle in his blood whenever he felt her sigh heat the base of his neck, or the glimmer in her olive eyes whenever she outwitted him in one of their many arguments, or that accursed, delightful laugh of hers.

She was distracting him, and Myles had thought that upon getting to know her once their initial meeting he would quickly lose interest in her, but no, she was still here, and contrary to his belief, he would almost immediately feel her absence as soon as she waved her final goodbye for the day . . .

Did that mean he missed her when she wasn’t there?

And if so, then were his feelings for her progressing rapidly everyday?  What was he spiraling down to? What if fate ill-treated him . . . would he ever climb out?

What if she didn’t return his feelings?

Myles gulped and cast that worrying thought away. She was entitled to her opinion of him, and that was that.

Emily fished out a pair of ceramic teacups and a pot, along with cream, sugar and milk, and carefully laid them out on the table . . . and Myles remembered. His cheeks and neck turned scarlet.

Emily caught the reddening of his face, and snorted. “And so the genius remembers!”

He winced.

“I’m... very, very sorry,” he mumbled, barely audible.

“Sorry? Didn’t quite hear that? Could you just repeat that?”

He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat and raised his voice, “I’m sorry.”

Emily leaned in close enough that he could smell her now well acquainted sweet nectarine perfume, and despite of himself, greedily breathed in. Jo Malone, he noted, taking pleasure in her intoxicating scent.

She put a hand to her ear and said, “What? Didn’t catch that! A bit louder, mate!”

Myles sighed. “I’m apologizing for the fact that I spilt tea all over your pants. It was foolish of me and I regret it. Rest assure that the incident might haunt me to the very grave, and if I’m not damned, the afterlife,” he said loudly, crossing his arms in impatience.

Emily stage gasped, and put a hand to her chest. “Oh-my-goodness . . . Myles Fowl . . . Was that a joke? Were you actually attempting at being funny? Is it really the day?! AM I GOING TO HELL FOR THIS?”

As if on queue, Myles promptly rolled his eyes, and Emily laughed, rolling her chair to the center of the room. “You’re an inane piece of work, Emily, and I wouldn’t want you to forget that, alright?” he called, arching an eyebrow at her snicker.

Her laugh faltered, and suddenly a shy smile played on her lips. “I still have your Christmas gift, if you want it.” She tucked a loose strand of chestnut carelessly behind her ear, and without meaning to, Myles’ heart swelled.

He shouldn’t, wouldn’t be too eager this time. “I believe it’s wise to say that you should open it, and eliminate any future prospect of a sure to come accident. Just in case.”

Emily shrugged. “It’s your present.”

Myles grinned.

***

Emily noticed the smile brightening his face, and suddenly the years of prematurity that lined his marble features faded from sight, and the lines on his mouth and forehead disappeared, and for the first time since she had seen him, Myles looked like a proper eighteen year old. The hazel in his eyes weren’t quite as menacing, but bright and affectionate, and . . . well, human. And she wasn’t afraid to say that that look exhilarated her. Maybe it was her ability to buoy up a cynical boy’s low spirits that electrified her, or maybe it was the enormous amount of interest he was giving her, one that veered far from the negativity she was usually used to from him. 

Myles tried to mask his eagerness but she didn’t miss the nervous energy radiating uncontrollably from him... and at that moment Emily found him beautiful, like an abandoned toy that had finally found a playmate. Years of loneliness had lined maturity onto his face, and now she could finally see his true worth.

And she liked it. She liked it a lot.

She made sure to take her time in pulling the wrapped parcel from her bag, and then took great care in unwrapping the present. She made sure Myles was watching her unwrap his gift, taking particular joy in the incessant impatience from the tapping of his foot.  Whatever she was doing was working, and Emily laughed at his pained expression.

Myles groaned. “You’re not serious, are you?” he said in an agonized voice.

She shushed him and continued.

After what seemed like five minutes (and as much as Emily loved to annoy Myles, the boredom eventually got to her as well), the present was wrapperless, and Myles peered cautiously at the item in her hand.

His eyes widened.

She grinned.

“No... that’s- that’s impossible. Even I couldn’t find that...” he muttered frantically, his hand instinctively rubbing his chin. Emily smile widened, holding out the book for him to take.

A while before Emily had met any of the Fowls, Emily had asked her father, an English literature professor who worked in King’s College at the time, for any antique book she could use as a display for their family bookstore. Any old book, but it had to be five hundred years old and no less. Laughing it off, her father assured her he’d do his best, but that the results may come out as fruitless.

“Gunna have to dip into my black market funds, am afraid,” he had joked, his eyes twinkling in good-humored mirth.

Joking aside, Emily had continued to pester her father, insisting that shop sales might skyrocket, and he finally agreed, but warned her not to expect anything worthwhile.

“Whatever it is, I’ll take it!” reminded sixteen-year old Emily, heading out of his office door.

Two years and many months later, Emily’s father returned home with a large book about a man who lived in the golden ages of the Arab world. According to the text, the man had been the inventor of many of the world’s first surgical tools. Emily’s uncle, a successful biologist residing in the Middle East, had given it as a present to Jacob Faucet, and seeing as his daughter loved to read, Jacob gifted the book to Emily, reminding her of the immense value the book was worth.

Then tragedy struck, and she met Myles Fowl. But despite their harsh beginning, Emily and Myles had grown close. So close that Emily decided the book needed a better home, and what better home was there than Fowl Manor?

Myles’ hands shook as he grasped the book from Emily’s outstretched hands, and she could only laugh at the worry lines creasing his forehead.

“Unbelievable . . .” he breathed. He turned to the first page and looked excitedly at her. “The texture . . . The text must be more than five hundred years old! Each page is an artifact for crying out loud! . . .” He flipped a couple more pages, marveling at the detailed illustrations and ancient Arabic text. “ . . . wait until Artemis gets a look at this . . .  I-“ he stopped abruptly, and his eyes hesitantly met Emily’s. “Thank you, Emily,” he said softly, gazing at her with silent wonder.

For reasons unknown to her, Emily felt her cheeks flush, and avoided meeting his intense gaze. “Don’t mention it,” she said quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Myles shook his head, and . . . was the space between them closing? He gently took her delicate hands into his, and Emily immediately noticed the size difference. Myles’ hands were one of the longest she’d ever seen. “But . . . you don’t understand,” he muttered, the corner of his lips curving into a lopsided smile. Emily swallowed. “You don’t understand how dear this is to me, really . . . thank you.”

He brushed the line of her jaw with an idle thumb, and leaned in, gently pressing his lips to her cheek.

Emily’s eyes fluttered to a close, and her heart rate spiked.

He pulled away, looking surprised, as if fully aware of exactly what he had just done, and stared at the floor, his face a deep shade of cherry.

She gave a soft laugh, not precisely sure of what just happened. But she felt warm, and that’s all that mattered to her.  

Myles coughed and rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to eliminate any aspect of possible eye contact.

A loud knock sounded from the opposite side of the room, and in waltzed a half dressed Beckett, a ripe green apple dangling from his mouth. Myles growled, and Emily suppressed a giggle. Beckett took a large bite and, whilst chewing, called, “Myles! Mum neejs you! Marque jus’ finished taking m’ suit’s measurements and ‘ow it’s yo’ bloody turn!” He paused, turning his gaze towards the couple seated near (very near, Beckett would later add) each other, and swallowed.

His mouth split into a wide grin, eying their tangled fingers. “Well. Well, well, well. Myles.” Beckett’s grin widened, “It’s been six months but you’ve finally managed to find the courage to make out with your girlfriend!” He whipped out his phone and snapped a shot; Myles looking horrified, Emily a bright shade of red. “I’m marking down history,” he explained, shoving the phone back into his pocket, chuckling.

Myles’ eyes widened and he shot Emily a frantic stare, obtusely denying Beckett’s previous statement.

“Give me the phone!” he shouted, abruptly standing up.

Beckett shook his head and wiggled his hips. “Come and get me, baby!” Emily covered her face.

Grabbing a nearby pencil case, Myles flung it at Beckett’s head, somehow managing the enormous feat of making harsh contact with his brother’s temple. Staggering backwards, Beckett cursed, and looked dangerously at his spluttering brother. “You’re paying for that, brother of mine.”

“Give me the phone!”

“No.”

“Give it!”

“No.”

Myles shook his head. “You’re my bodyguard... Give me the phone! And I’m not paying for anything!” he declared, his long legs dashing towards the door.

Beckett snickered good-naturedly, arching a fair eyebrow. “Bodyguard shmodygaurd. You’re paying for that!” he replied, racing after his brother.

Absent mindedly, Emily’s hand wandered to her left cheek.

What just happened?

“Emily!” Emily heard Beckett call from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?” she called back.

“Stay for dinner, alright!”

She laughed. 

Le Mansion

Her hair flies back as she turns to face the house for the last time. Her eyes; whimpering, orbs of deep black pain drip tears, as swiftly as a coursing river.
"We need to go." He tugs at her elbow, but she ignores him, staring up at the place where she was born; where she spent the majority of her twenty odd years.
"I don't want to just leave it. I know my mother. She'll sell the place." She chokes out, and he hugs her tightly, an attempt at consolation. 
There's no consolation to be had however, as she shrugs him off, takes a deep breath and turns her back on the one thing in the world that mattered to her the most. And slowly, she walks away. Each step feels like a slow agonising pain, and she goes on, one foot in front of another. One leather enclosed foot in front of another.
She'd struck it lucky in her lifetime. Her journalism was valued, and it was simply an overnight success where a man founded her, and revealed her to the world, drawing the curtain in a flamboyance so embarrassing that recalling it was humiliating.
Her blunt words affected many so profoundly, they'd claimed that her work had changed the way they viewed life. For her, they were her thoughts and she was being paid to share these very same thoughts to the world.

Even with all that money, she was unable to buy the house; as left in the will by her dearest grandmother. If a relative wished to own the house, it had to be given to them; they couldn't buy it. And since her mother was a manipulative little brat, she got the house and planned to sell it for the money. Obviously she was no better, and as the prospective buyers came into the house, she'd often sabotaged the place, making it seem horrible and dysfunctional.

(That's all so far, I came up with this in ten minutes; apologies - I'll be back and write more.)

~ Cal ~