I saw this and could not resist! I had to share. ^ ^ If you have a humorous prompt or found you just could not leave behind share it here! If you want to post back on these, fantastic, just hit the reply button so we know which one you are posting about! It can be as long or short as you want. I thought to myself while standing with my upper torso in the dragon's left nostril manually removing boogies made up primarily of cow hair....
Then came the dangerous part. I looked up at the anaesthetist. He nodded. The gallon of sedative did its job. I took the scalpel, I mean, disksaw, and began the work. I cut through the skin around the dragon's throat, taking a look behind my shoulder. The dark lord Krathadalmos ticked his tounge with impatience. Shaking my head, I finnished cutting through the skin, and reached for a smaller, more delicate device. An eight inch long meat knife. Working carefuly I blocked some of the surrounding arteries, then opened the fire gland. Got it, I thought to myself. Then, my satisfaction turned to horror, as I saw the oxygen line still open. "I hate my job," I muttered.
The first time I took the Great Course on Writing Fiction, my favorite prompt was "re-tell the beginning of a favorite story, but by putting it in a different setting." I ended up writing 2500 words about a Swords and Sorcery version of the bank robbery from the beginning of The Dark Knight, and I'm thinking about doing it again for a 25th Century alien version of Silence of the Lambs.
Why, yes it is There's obviously no way for me to publish my new opening professionally, would you like me to copy/paste it here?
Spoiler: Very very long ;) The church bells rang high noon, the time that the bandit leader had instructed his men to begin. Three of the bandits, waiting just outside the town docks, donned jesters’ masks and lit a torch. The two largest men pushed a manure cart full of gunpowder; the smaller ran behind with the torch in one hand and a bag in the other carrying several lengths of yarn. Two more bandits – a woodsman and a lock-pick – made their way to an abandoned house outside of town. Their patron had informed them of a trapdoor hidden in the house’s basement; the lock-pick found it in one of the corners. He called to the woodsman, unlocked the door, and the two crawled into the passage beneath. The path grew in height and breadth until both men were able to stand and run. The three masked bandits reached the docks. The larger two commanded that everybody within earshot drop to their knees; the smaller stuck the torch into the gunpowder and tied the middle of the yarn around the base. The small man then wrapped one end of the yarn around his wrist and walked out towards the water. He waved his hand in the air and yelled, “To all here who wish to die today: we come bearing a promise from the Clown Prince of Thieves! Should but one person try to get between us and our master’s spoils, then all will here will die in thunder and fire.” One of the larger bandits ran back to the cart, tied the other end of yarn around his own wrist, and likewise raised his hand to the air for all to see. “Whereas if anybody doesn’t want to die in an explosion, then you might want to stop everybody else from doing anything to get you killed. Does everybody understand us?” The woodsman stopped running. He whistled for the lock-pick to do the same, then took a fox – almost dead with poison – out of his bag and threw it into the darkness. The tunnel echoed with the hissing sound of a fire or a windstorm, followed by that of a mighty weight falling to the ground. The woodsman took a torch from his bag, set it alight, and took out a mirror to send more of the light forward. He advanced first, the lock-pick following behind; the two men came across the sleeping beast that had been guarding the passage. It was a great serpent, as thick as a man and with scales ranging from blood red to golden. Its neck was spread into a hood like a cobra, but the fangs in its jaw more resembled those of a gigantic viper. The woodsman estimated that, were it uncoiled, the serpent would measure at least the length of an Imperial frigate. “How the Hell could they have found a monster like this?” The lock-pick pushed at the woodsman’s shoulder. “Will we need to worry about it later?” The woodsman answered, “No, it doesn’t seem to be waking – ” The lock-pick pulled the woodsman’s head back and sliced his throat. The lock-pick dropped the knife, caught the torch and mirror as the dead man’s hands let go, and ran through the tunnel himself. He came to a stairwell and ascended into the building above. The masked bandits on the docks took more yarn and tied the torch to various objects with varying heights off of the docks. Within minutes, their web rendered safe passage impossible between the docks and dry land. The bandit not tied to the torch and the gunpowder ran into the dockmaster’s building. The lock-pick came to the top of the stairs. He set down his torch and his bag of tools on the stone floor, then threw the woodman’s empty bag to the metal door on his right side, perhaps two meters in breadth and three in height. When the dead man’s bag left his hand, he reached down to retrieve his own. White and orange light burst into his eyes from the direction of the door. The room filled the roar and the stench of a fire. The lock-pick turned to the door and saw that the bag he’d thrown had burst into flames. A shriek broke out from inside the dockmaster’s building. The two masked bandits controlling the gunpowder turned to face the noise. Their companion flew out of the window, one large tendril of green light wrapped around his neck and a second tying his ankles to the inside of the building. The tendril around his ankles went taut. His body dropped into the water. His head continued through the air. The bystanders started screaming. The two surviving bandits ducked behind a fruit cart. A man walked out of the building with his hands upraised and glowing green. He yelled an incantation in a language that the bandits did not understand. Another tendril of green formed around a large barrel of fish and threw it into the air. The smaller bandit took a blowgun and a silver dart out of his pocket. The larger man whispered, “Would he be able to attack us right now?” The smaller man answered, “No, he would need to start the incantation all over.” The larger man ran to the gunpowder cart and took a sling and bullet from the axle. A tendril of green wrapped around his neck and lifted him into the air. Not enough to upset the torch, but enough that the man couldn’t catch his footing. The smaller man breathed into the pipe. The dart flew across the dock and into the mage’s shoulder. Sparks of blue lightning burned across the mage’s body as the silver disrupted his magic. The mage screamed and the tendril holding the larger bandit in the air evaporated. Both men screamed – the mage more strongly – and the bandit fell to the ground. The small bandit shot two more darts, one hitting the mage in the leg and the other in the chest. The mage tried to force another incantation from his lips. No power came to him. The larger bandit stood up. He picked his partner up by the back of the neck, closed his fingers around the man’s throat, then threw him to the ground. “What are you, a bloody ogre-bastard?” As the smaller man stood up, the larger cut himself from the torch and limped across the dock to the fallen mage. He noticed that the mage was wearing a pendant, green and shaped like a griffon. The man almost laughed. Before the crime, the bastard with the blowgun had told everybody “Look for a trinket like a griffon: possibly blue, possibly green. The Clown Prince says we’ll need it to get the treasure out of the vault.” The man had assumed that the Clown’s emissary was referring to a key, perhaps a marker revealing the location of some hidden key. But if they were robbing a sorcerer, then the pendant was almost certainly part of some mystical safeguard. The man cut it from the mage’s neck and tied it around his own. He worked his way down a flight of stairs to where the lock-pick was opening a door. He noticed that the lock-pick was covering his hands with a leather bag. He did not see the hunter. Again, the masked man silently cursed the Clown Prince’s emissary. Without the leg injury sustained by the emissary’s deceit, the masked man could’ve easily defeated the lock-pick by himself; with his injury, he didn’t think he could do so without the hunter’s aid. “What happened to –” The lock-pick jumped back from the half-open door. Geysers of flame shot out of the walls. The flames hitting the outside of the door reflected into the room. The masked man couldn’t see the flames hitting the inside of the door, but he presumed that they were reflected into the vault. Perhaps the man wouldn’t need the hunter’s help defeating the lock-pick. The flames disappeared. The lock-pick smacked the door with his leather bag before covering his hands to open the door further. He yelled to the man behind him, “10 seconds. Each fire lasts 10 seconds, and after one ends, we can only be in front of the doorway for 10 seconds before another starts. Who the Hell constructs something like this?” He jumped back again, narrowly avoiding the next burst of flame. The masked man removed his pendant and waved it at the fire. Nothing happened; the pendant must be for something else. “Sorcerer. Not one of those ‘don’t kill anyone’ sorcerers serving the Crown; this one’s probably in some demon-cult. Where’s the hunter?” The flames ceased. The lock-pick resumed opening the door. “Well, the patron told me to kill him after he was done with the ‘guard dogs.’ More gold for the rest of us, right?” He stepped back to survey his progress. The door appeared open enough for anything worth carrying out. The masked man put his hand to the lock-pick’s head. “Actually, I believe his exact words were ‘one less share.’” The tone of the lock-pick’s voice warped into that of fear. “Wait, what?” The masked man slammed the lock-pick’s head against the metal door, then dropped the limp body in front of one of the flame vents. He ran through the doorway. The sound of the flames began, joined now by the reek of burning flesh. The masked man looked around the treasure room. The metal chest was as the Clown Prince’s emissary had described – grey, simple and rectangular, perhaps a meter and a half in length, a meter in breadth, and a meter in height – but the promised cart for removing the chest from the room, let alone from the building and then the town, was nowhere to be seen. Then again, it appeared to the masked man that many parts of the Clown Prince’s plan were not as he had been told. The man held the pendant to the chest to see whether anything would happen. The pendant flew out of his hand and landed on the metal. He walked over to the chest and put his hand on the pendant. The chest lifted into the air, settling perhaps half a meter off of the ground. The man decided to test how much control the pendant granted: he willed for the chest to fall closer to the ground. The chest descended about a quarter meter. The man climbed on top of the chest. It remained in the air despite the extra weight. The man willed the chest to float towards the doorway. He took himself close to the flames, careful to line himself up with the doorway without painfully warming the metal beneath him. The flames dissipated. The man forced the chest to fly out of the room at great speed, then slowed down so that he could ascend the staircase. He flew the chest out of the building. A small fishing boat had just come into the docks and was turning back to the sea. The man didn’t worry: this endeavor too close to finished for any complication to cause a problem. He saw the Clown Prince’s emissary standing near the torch and gunpowder cart. Given how the rest of the robbery had gone so far, the man decided that the emissary had probably been ordered to kill him. If that was how the Clown Prince wanted this to end, then the masked man could just kill the emissary and keep the whole treasure to himself. He flew closer to the emissary, then set the chest down on the ground and climbed off. He took his sling and bullet out of his pocket, started swinging the projectile around his hand – The emissary whistled. An arrow fired from the fishing boat and into the would-be assassin’s skull. The sling, with it’s projectile, flew into the water. The emissary cut himself from the torch, ran to the fallen mage, and searched for mystical weapons in the man’s robes. He found a scrap of parchment in the mage’s sleeve. On it was drawn a patchwork of snowflakes. The emissary took a knife from his pocket, cut his hand, and wiped the scrap of parchment across the blood. He closed his bloodied hand around the parchment. The secret watchman jumped out of his boat and tied it to the dock. He yelled to the emissary, “Where’s everybody else?” The emissary reached his arm in the direction of the man who’d saved his life. The watchman screamed as his body shattered into ice. The emissary opened his hand. All designs on the parchment disappeared. He dropped the scrap. As the Clown Prince’s last surviving man walked to the treasure chest, the mage called out in pained gasps, “You think you’ve won? I would love to … tell you all of the ways that … my master is going to kill you … but it seems that your own … master will do it for him.” The Clown Prince’s man untied his watchman’s boat. “Do you believe that you can … convince him to let you live? Do you believe that … you can run to a land where … he will never find you? Do you … believe that you can kill him first? What do you … believe … will happen to you?” The Clown Prince’s man returned to the mage. He knelt down, put his left hand in front of the mage’s face, and spun a ring on his finger with his right hand. “I believe that the path to Paradise …” He removed his ring. The illusion of health evaporated from his face, revealing a mouth that had been cut from ear to ear. The emissary – or rather, the Clown Prince of Thieves himself – opened his mouth to show the mage the back teeth that had would normally be covered by the flesh of an uninjured face. The mage’s face paled. His trousers gave off the bitter stench of urine. The Clown Prince waved his tongue across his face, touching his left ear and almost his right. “… Begins and ends in Hell.” The Clown Prince dragged the mage across the wood and dropped him next to the post that his boat had been tied to. He ran back to the treasure chest, climbed on top, and flew it into the boat. He jumped back onto the dock, took the rope that had been around the post, and tied it around the mage’s feet. He reasoned that the mage must be in shock to be putting up so little fight. He turned his back to the mage, removed his jester mask, and threw it back to land near the mage’s bound body. He climbed back into the boat, ducked below the mage’s line of vision for almost a minute, then stood up to adjust the sails. The mage watched as the boat pulled out of the dock. The rope around his legs straightened in the air. The other end of rope fell harmlessly off the boat. The mage fainted just as town guards began cutting the web of yarn from the gunpowder trap.
@Simpson17866 If this were a movie, I would not go see it. Which means snaps for you because I think my eyes where size of saucers and I was cringing left and right (I am a chicken with all things Horror). I wanted to stop reading it but my curiosity grabbed a hold of me and would not let me go!! I loved the concept and surprise at the end even as twisted as it was.
No fair bringing Heath Ledger into the picture. Yes I did see The Dark Knight but had no desire to see any others although I am piqued by Suicide Squad and going back and forth on whether or not to see that one. *Thinky-face* I cringe a lot with violence in a majority of movies and I have a photographic for all things horror/scary which then translates itself to when I dream in vivid imagery which then leads itself to that half dream-state when your just awake enough to physically react. The horrifying ones that make my soul scream is when I have nightmares of my kiddos being harmed in front of me (mamma bear, yes, yes I am). I am for the most part a gentle person regardless of my anti-social or cold behavior unless the kiddos are threatened, then you die or are severely physically mauled. So I tend to veer away from scary things so as not have the nightmares. Reading is different for me though, and while I don't read horror as a genre in general, I can definitely appreciate having my curiosity captured as I am super friggin' picky.
@Seraph751 Wow. I actually love horror, and part of me is happy that you thought my version of the bank robbery was so much scarier than the original. Anyway, I lost track of posting the new homework I wrote over the weekend for Monday – and it also turned out that my SciFi Silence of the Lambs idea didn't pan out as well as I'd wanted – but here's a post-zombie introduction of Sherlock Holmes and Captain Jane Watson that I came up with instead. BTW, I saw Suicide Squad, so now you don't have to. ** Spoiler London. Home. No one told me going into the army that it takes more bravery coming back. Over in Afghanistan, every choice you made meant something. Pack extra gum and toothpaste instead of extra bullets, Zeds could run you over “In a Heartbeat” as the song goes, but pack the extra bullets instead and get cut off for months without proper hygiene, you could lose a jaw from the simplest of dental infections. Nothing means anything back home. You climb out of bed at noon, nothing happens. You get late for the tube and have to wait for the next one, there’s no difference from the one you missed. It doesn’t even look different. Whole world taking a swan-dive down the rabbit hole, you’d expect to see things that would’ve been unusual. Daily life looking exactly the same as it always did feels more like a Stepford mockery than any sort of comforting. I cross the street and walk up to St. Thomas Hospital. They don’t want a surgeon who can’t stop herself from shaking, why would they do? Just because I don’t have any other skill-sets doesn’t mean they’ll give me a job, it just means everybody else won’t. My walking stick is more useful than I am. I should probably tell my therapist that I’m having those thoughts again. The thoughts about how I’m more lifeless over here than the Zeds were over there. About wishing they’d just shot me immediately instead of waiting to find out I was immune. About wishing I had the courage to pretend I’m still over there, that it just happened, and that I don’t know about the potential for immunity either. Most women fail because they try something delicate instead, like slitting their wrists or swallowing a bottle of pills, but the Army are letting me keep my firearm for as long as my head-shrink tells them that I have these thoughts under control. I should probably tell them that’s a bad idea, that it’s not working anymore. “Jane?” Well, bloody hell if it isn’t Dr. Michael sodding Stamford running out the door in his scrubs and lab coat. “Dr. Stamford!” I walk over to meet him. We briefly share an embrace, then he half-heartedly smacks the back of my head. “Jane, if you still can’t call me ‘Mike’ or at least ‘Michael’ to my face –” I laugh. Hopefully, he’ll think it’s genuine. “Michael, I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He laughs too. “And when the hell were you going to tell me you’d made it back? Penny and the kids have been asking every night about their ‘Aunt’ Jane!” Oh, lovely. Here come the complexes again. “Do you have time to walk and talk? I’m told it’s harder to be overheard when you’re walking.” “Jane Hannah Watson, after all the thousands of hours you spent getting me through university, I would have time to walk with you across the Pond and back if you’d wanted.” I start walking, trying to enjoy the view of the park and the bike-sharing station across the street. “And that’s the problem. If I told you that I needed a place to stay, you would offer me a spare room in a heartbeat –” I try to hold back a bitter laugh at the choice of words. It doesn’t work. “I just wanted to find a flat for myself first.” “How is that a problem? Of course I have an extra room!” “And that just makes it worse.” Mike mouths “What.” Did he try to say that out loud? “I assure you that I appreciate the gesture and that I would love to be healthy enough to accept, but until I get things sorted out with my therapist, I’m afraid that feeling like a parasite to you would only make my situation even more painful.” Mike bursts out laughing. And then slaps his mouth shut. “Oh, God, Jane, I am so sorry.” I can’t help but laugh with him. Now he’s not trying to stop himself either. I needed this. Everything I’d just been thinking gone, evaporated into nothingness. Not sure how long it will last before the train of thought comes back, but at least I have some glimmer of emotion to look forward to for when I get my life back on track. I force myself to breathe. “So what exactly did you think was funny?” Mike takes a few second longer than I’d done. “So you’re saying that you know you need help, but won’t ask to impose changes on the life of a friend who already has everything figured out?” Of course not. At least, not yet, anyway. “And you have another option?” “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am going to quit the practice and go take Tarot classes.” Wait, what? Is he serious? He’s not serious, is he? “Clearly, fate and destiny are more powerful than I’d thought and I should be learning as much as I can about fortune-telling rather than wasting my life on mere trifles like saving lives.” All right, fine, so he wasn’t serious. Probably. “Go on?” “You’re the second person today to tell me that you need a place to stay, but that you’d be too much of a burden on anybody else’s home life.” … I should say something. Something profound. This is the most perfect turn of events I’ve ever seen in my life, and this deserves so much better than the run-of-the-mill talking points we’d shared before. “Huh?” Really, Jane? That’s the best you can come up with? Mike turns around and starts jogging. Is he going back to St. Thomas? “Come along, you can meet him right now!” Wait, this new friend of Mike’s is right here? Maybe Tarot classes aren’t the worst idea in the world. … We turn the corner. AMT Coffee is still open. How could I have ever forgotten how beautiful the smell is right between the crispness of the hospital swirling into the sharpness of freshly ground coffee beans? “Mike, do you still remember all the times we’d have Jack fix us coffee to get us through the late study nights –” “– And you’d always tell him that the discovery of coffee was more important than that of penicillin?” “So no you don’t then?” God, I have missed when sarcasm could be playful and not have to be cutting. Then again, I also miss being in control of my own body. Blasted twitching is coming back. Mike smacks the back of my head again. “Hey, there he is.” He runs over to some scrawny man facing us, but sitting at the table furthest from us. “Dear God, Sherlock, what are you doing?” Do I even want to know? Screw it, why not? I walk over. The man “Sherlock” – not a name I’ve heard before outside of Monty Python – is swirling his coffee with his bare finger. A rather reddish coffee, I see as I get closer. I didn’t know they made coffee in reddish flavours. Wait, is that a bloodied pin on the napkin in front of him? The man doesn’t look up at Mike. “Seeing how concentrated the blood can become before the drink becomes unpotable.” Is this man a vampire or a lunatic? No, wait, a vampire wouldn’t consider any mixture of coffee and blood to be undrinkable. The man must be a lunatic instead. Mike thought I would want him as a flatmate? Still, beggars can’t be choosers. “Pleased to meet you, Sherlock, my name is Jane Watson.” Sherlock looks up. “Welcome back from Afghanistan, Doctor.” What. Mike struggles to hold back a laugh. Sherlock shakes his head. “Before you ask, I despise fortune-tellers as much as it appears that you do, and I wouldn’t want your consideration of myself as a potential flatmate to be discoloured by the mistaken impression that I respect the practice.” I stand there with my mouth open for what feels like minutes. “And –” I force myself to finish the thought. “– Why would I believe you?” “Because were a psychic to suffer a psychotic break in the middle of a ritual, how would he know which of the information planted without context into his head was from the magic and which was from the illness? The only information that matters is the information gleaned from logical analysis. I did not call you ‘Doctor’ because I took a potion that popped the word ‘Doctor’ into my mind, I called you ‘Doctor’ because I observed that you are as comfortable – psychosomatic tremors from your service notwithstanding – in a hospital as my colleagues on the force are comfortable in a police station. You are either a nurse or a doctor, and given that nurses and doctors require different educations, it didn’t seem likely that a woman who’d spent years in nursing school would’ve had the time to become as personally acquainted with a man who’d spent his educational years in medical school as you seem to be with Michael.” Bloody hell. “Michael’s face tells me that you are one of the most important friends in his life – again, notwithstanding the years you’ve been out of the country – and therefor, medical school.” That’s actually not bad. “So what about my being out of country?” “You carry yourself as a soldier, and your tan suggests that you’d spent a great deal of time in the Sun, yet in uniform rather than sunbathing. The only two places in the world that the Crown are deploying to for active duty and which receive that much Sun are the Middle East and the southern United States, yet before the Masquerade was broken, you had spent your entire life studying medical science at the same reputable universities as Michael here. No one with that educational background would be comfortable with how much of the world cannot be understood objectively –” The man sighs and pauses. Is he struggling as hard to adapt to the revelations of the past few years that I have, not just about fortune-telling specifically? “– And so you would’ve insisted on going to the Middle East to fight the hordes of undead, rather than help the Americans to crack down on the mages who’d originally created them. You would not be able to force yourself to study the purely mystical techniques of combat, but you would be willing to take up arms against a foe that can be killed with normal firearms, and you would be willing to lend your medical expertise to those willing to do the same. Granted, your tremors show that didn’t work perfectly –” Well, I certainly wouldn’t call almost being eaten alive “working perfectly” either. “And how did you know that my tremors were psychosomatic rather than physical?” “You have not yet taken a seat, that means that part of your brain is able to forget about this.” Very well then, let’s see what else this man can do. “Can you tell me where I got them?” “I see a hint of disgust in your face, that tells me that your injury was different on a fundamental level from what most soldiers are trained to deal with, presumably to do with your discomfort with the existence of magic. You do not seem like the kind of person who would’ve accepted magical treatments, thus it had to be a magical injury that you could recover from without magical aid. Are you one of the 1-in-3000 who are immune to the bite of the undead?” The man’s hands may as well be cutting through my chest and pulling my heart out. I need to sit, I need to breathe, I need to not fall over and cause a scene. The man gets up. “My apologies, I should not have –” I put my hand up as I take a seat. I force myself to breathe. “This was the first time we’d run into one of the Zeds that had eaten enough to become a much larger monster, this one able to spray powerful acid. I got sprayed and had to remove my uniform, and then once we’d dealt with the large one, some of us were dead or injured, I wasn’t the only one who’d had to lose the uniform, and so many smaller ones swarmed around us that we ran out of bullets and had to get in close with the knives.” “And you got bit?” “Over a dozen times before I lost consciousness, and I’m told another dozen after that. When I woke up, they had to sedate me all over again, I was making such a scene about how the rescue team should’ve left me behind. The second time I woke up, I was told that there had been plausible yet unconfirmed reports about a small fraction of people being immune, but this had been after 5 years of believing that a single scratch was a death sentence." I feel myself breathe again. How had I just said that much so easily? Was it just the feeling that this man could already decipher everything about my life the second he wished to do? And that he didn’t even need to use magic to do so? Was it that he seemed to be struggling with the world turned upside-down as much as I’ve been? Was it that being in a proper hospital again was making me feel safer than an emergency tent in a Zed-damned desert ever could? Was it just that any friend of Mike’s would be a friend of mine? "They were willing to wait to see if I was immune or not, but I wasn't.” Sherlock lifts his hand a centimetre or two above the table, then pulls it back. Let’s try a bit of analysis of my own: he sees how uncomfortable I am and wanted to take my hand to reassure me that he was a friend and that I was safe, but is almost as uncomfortable making physical contact with other people as I am remembering It happening? Sherlock shakes his head. “Perhaps let’s just take a breather to look at a flat first and save any more discussions as heavy as this one for a later time?” How the hell did he – really, Jane? He just deciphered everything about your military service in a single glance, and you’re surprised he knows you’re looking for a flatmate? “And how exactly did you know I was looking for a flat?” “I’d just told Michael this morning that I’d been kicked out by my last flatmate, but that I’d rather impose on my own family than on Michael’s, and now he’s introducing me to an old friend of his who’s just returned home from Afghanistan. Clearly, she needs a flatmate as much as I do, and I should be looking at a list of flats that I’d found for the chance that I would be able to share the rent instead of the list that I would try to afford on my own. Will you be needing directions to 221b Baker Street?”
@Simpson17866 Suicide Squad is so tempting though lol! Where's the rest of it? Let me take back what I said about not reading horror at all, nightmares bedamned because I would and want to read the rest of this.
That feeling of "Oh no!"... (the worse one for me was the bookworm in the library but his glasses broke). To twilight zone someone is to give them that sense of "oh no." Does that make sense?
Bloody Hell!!!! I want - I take that back - I absolutely NEED to read this!!! Please go and write this story!!!
@Seraph751 Are we maybe not talking about the same thing? I promise I tried to convince myself that my scenario could work A new species had just been genetically engineered for colonizing a new planet that the naturally-evolved peoples in the Coalition would not have been able to survive as easily Scientists were still figuring out what made their new species of people "tick" – just because everybody understood the biology didn't mean anybody understood the psychology – and before being arrested for his own murders, Hannibal Lector had written the books (literally, Crawford had copies of all of them and had gotten most of them autographed during Lector's partnership with Will Graham) on what made the bad apples of the species different from everybody else A new serial killer was stalking the colony and Crawford wanted to trick a new recruit into getting Lector's thoughts on the predator of this New Wild Western world But it did not feel real to me. Batman feels universal to me because he's been in so many versions, Sherlock Holmes feels universal to me because he's been in so many versions, even Hannibal Lector feels universal in light of the modern-day Mads Mikkelson series. But Clarice Starling felt "Jodie Foster, 1991" to me. Maybe I could've made a sci-fi version of Will Graham meeting Lector instead, but even that felt disappointing after hyping myself up for writing Clarice Starling. And so I had to write about Sherlock Holmes meeting a Dr. Watson who'd just returned to London from fighting the zombies. Woe is me
OK, I think I got it: so "where's the rest of it" was just you being interested, not me forgetting to copy a big chunk? Nor was it me posting the whole thing in a sloppy way that would make it look to a reasonable person that I had forgotten a big chunk? In that case, thank you. And sorry it took so long to say that, I don't tend to be good in conversations unless I'm the only one doing all the different sides
I saw this prompt and my mind started to run away with all kinds of ideas, sooooooooo, I had to share!
I love the detail of this statue... Is this a sleeping beauty inspired statue or maybe even the Persephone the Goddess of Spring... What a prompter!
