Writing Prompt

The woods are silent, a whisper of wind running amongst the bare branches. The growls of the undead gurgle through the dead wood like a bubbling stream.

The Mossberg 590A1 Retrograde shotgun is slung over his shoulder comfortably as the midnight soldier makes his way east, where he believes civilization rests amongst a nest of Birch trees and deer moss.

A growl to his left let’s him know a young...

I have been walking, it seems, all my life; hiding in shadow for most of it. A scavenger. A loner. A picker of the bones of dead animals already stripped bare by those much stronger. A man—if I can even be called a man—without family, friend or even simple acquaintance.

Memories of my mother are merely faded images—glimpses of my earlier struggles—but, at least, I had someone who protected me, ta...

The end of the world came when everyone least expected it. Some idiot scientist decided it would be a good idea to bring back the dead as zombie-like superhumans bent on destroying all uninfected humans. So yeah, I'd say this is definitely a July for the history books. Assuming humanity survives to tell the tale. I think most people have either died off, or been turned by now. As far as I know, I'...

TW: Death, implied war.

All the problems of her past melted away at the sight of people. Happy, Healthy, and most importantly: thriving in their new environment. A group of children, presumably born after the crisis, kicked a ball around, playing what seemed to be a modified version of soccer. One toddler spotted her, and ran to an adult, tugging on his skirt for attention. He looked at the woman...

“Some would say the cold would slow an infection: those people are idiots.”

Isabel laughed, the only source of humour besides from the lingering of the old comedy bar twenty or so miles away. Neimar wasn’t at all in the funniest, but knowing that laughing would make him feel better, she had her act on point.

They lay on the outskirts of Elyo, tucked away in a small square held together by heaps ...

It was the light that kept her moving, like a moth: it was necessary for navigating but might also lead to her death.

But it was light.

Artificial light.

It had been fourteen months since she’d seen any sort of manufactured light; back when she still had working batteries; back when her flashlight proved more valuable than her rifle in keeping her alive.

She stopped at the edge of the tree...

It was so dusty and dark. The sky was overcast with clouds and strong gusts of wind whipped my hair into my eyes. A dead street for miles and miles, full of broken and busted up buildings, no one else in sight. Everything was so…quiet. The only sounds were the sharp winds and soft clack of my shoes on pavement.

What…happened to this place? I thought to myself. I had just woken up an hour ago in ...

He crouched down, dropping his pack behind an oak tree, keeping his bow and quiver close to him. The tall grass tickled the back of his ear, and the moisture from the dirt seeped into his pants where the knee pushes the fabric into the ground.

A breeze flowed through the forest trees, carrying the smell of something that he couldn’t quite label. It danced around his nose. For a moment, it seduc...

** This is a sequel to "Rory The Flying Squirrel". It's not a necessary read, just know that it's essentially a sequel to the overall prompt of "You live in a world where you are assigned a pet animal since birth".**

We met Deacon and Sinclair under a bridge, just a few miles south of The Concrete Jungle. Deacon was casually sitting on a discarded milk crate, eating a can of beans. Sinclair sa...

In hostility

In prosperity

Nothing seems real

But so the time reels

With nothing so clear

Cannons yell fear

But peace was intent

Others wouldn’t see what it meant

With water boiling through

Miles seem true

*****

Continuation of Mile 72...