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November Writing Prompts 2022
November is here! Trade your spooks for warm blankets and delicious spices, and cuddle in as the weather turns. We're not to winter yet! And As always--
Disclaimer: I never close old writing prompts from previous months. People can and should be encouraged to post on old month's prompts and I highly encourage players to track these posts to catch stragglers or new people writing on old prompts.
Now. With that out of the way, onto this month's prompts.
1. Making haste as time runs out.
2. "Well, that's the best we can do."
3. Gratitude for something small.
4. Counting down with anticipation.
5. A day spent with your favorite person.
Bonus image prompt:
5. A day spent with your favourite person.
Making Haste
“Ready?” Damien asked as he set the stopwatch to thirty seconds. Minoru nodded. “Then, go!”
Minoru jumped onto the rope, pulling his knees as high as he could before snapping the arches of his feet together around it.
The pups had been working with him on a different rope position, one that effectively wrapped the rope around the outside of the leg, which was one way they stood on the rope with very little effort. But Minoru hadn’t quite nailed it yet. He was faster with the rope between his legs - at least for now.
“Good push off. Keep your core engaged! Push and pull! Find your rhythm!” Damien coached from down below.
Unlike most American Ninja Warrior hopefuls, Minoru had the leg part figured out. It was his upper body strength that lagged behind. This obstacle, more than any of the others, required both to work in perfect unity while moving at full speed. Minoru had yet to fully slip into the zone, as he often did while freerunning. His mind still had to focus too much on proper technique, like pulling himself up arm over arm while stretching his legs out at the same time.
There really was a rhythm to it. The Dogs could shoot up this rope and put any of the previous American Ninja Warrior champions to shame! Maybe one day, Minoru would be able to do that too.
But it wasn’t going to be today.
“Six! Five! Four!”
Minoru looked up to the flag that marked the required 75 feet. (Roughly eight stories up).
“Three! Two!”
He tried to go faster in those last few seconds, even lunging for it. But he was not close enough.
“And TIME!!”
Minoru clenched the rope as he wrapped it around the outside of his foot. He looked at what floor he was effectively on.
“Six and a half…” he sighed, as he started to carefully slide back down. Damien waited patiently at the bottom for Minoru to land, and to shake out his hands, stretch his arms and roll his shoulders. “Not my best run.”
“No, but your form continues to improve. Keep working your biceps and forearms with underhanded pull-ups. And remember, do not ever stop to check your progress, even when the buzzers start going off. Every second you look is at least three seconds your mind and body are doing something other than climbing. Do not look. Do not even glance.”
Minoru nodded.
“Back on the rope. No time limit this round, no pressure. I want you just to focus on the rhythm of the climb…”
“Okay.” He nodded again. One day, he’d clear Mount Midoriyama. One day…
Well, that’s the best we can do
Sure enough, the seven-year-old boy in Bay 1 had done some kind of crazy jump off the top of a jungle gym after school and broken his leg. It wasn’t his first trip to the ER. Like a lot of overly-adventurous kiddos, his chart had its fair share of bumps, bruises, x-rays and stitches - all of which suggested it likely wouldn’t be his last visit either.
As he entered the bay, Minoru heard the doctor’s sigh. “Well, that’s the best we can do.”
The bones had been properly set, and she was satisfied. But she seriously doubted the boy had learned his lesson. And when the entire team glanced at Minoru, it seemed to prove that very point. Some people never learn their lesson. (Though, some of them do go on to have successful careers as hospital orderlies...)
“Hey, you guys done with everything in here?” He asked eagerly. As the doctor nodded, he picked up a few of the discarded plaster strips. “Can I have these?”
“Why?” She asked.
“Because I think I can do one better. Is the gift shop still open?”
“Ah… Until nine.”
Minoru grinned.
About an hour later, as he was making his rounds, Minoru snuck a teddy bear with a similarly casted leg onto the nightstand of the boy as he slept. He closed the door softly, and smiled.
“THAT’S the best we can do.”
3. Gratitude for something small.
Just a small thank you.
1 - Making Haste as Time Runs Out
But the traditions of his people were not the Blackbird's will.
No, just like him, the Blackbird was slowly and painfully dying. With six pieces of its soul held hostage on this side of the veil, their god was becoming more and more desperate. The Prophet knew exactly what he had to do, find one more piece - Kuro had five now, though he'd only attuned to four of them - and complete the fabled Revival Ritual in whatever time he had left.
It felt like an impossible task. His people had gone centuries without any lead on the other armor pieces, and he didn't have centuries. He didn't have years. He might not even have months. The elixir developed by the Mystic could slow his body's deterioration, but couldn't stop it - a fact made all the more evident when he woke from the exhausting aftermath of the latest Blackest Night.
Even after three days of sleep, his entire body ached with exhaustion. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't push himself up from the cot. His whole arm shook as he tried to reach out toward the Mystic, who after days of watchful vigil, had finally fallen asleep beside him. With no strength left, he resorted to a magical message directly into his partner's mind.
'Help me... please...'
That, too, felt weaker than it should have been. But the panicked thought was more than enough to jolt the acolyte awake.
He sat up, diving immediately to the Prophet's side. His hand glowed a faint shade of green as he cast a detect disease spell out of instinct. It came up with nothing. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"I... I can't sit up."
"Each Blackest Night has been more difficult than the last. You need time to regain your strength." He replied groggily, gently stroking the leader's sunken cheek.
"We don't have time..." his words rang hauntingly. "This... this weakness... It feels different..."
The color drained from the Mystic's face as the Prophet's words sunk in. His hands shook as he lifted the threadbare blanket off the leader's painfully thin body. The Prophet's fingers twitched. His foot flexed, or maybe it was just the blanket.
"Lift your leg for me, please."
The Mystic held his breath as he watched the Prophet's muscles tense. His leg shook, but it didn't move. He did manage to pull his hand in a little, skeletal fingers wrapping weakly around the edge of the cot in a desperate attempt at added support. But it was all for naught. Exhausted and out of breath, he finally admitted, "I... I can't."
The Mystic felt just as breathless as he asked, "can you bend your knee? Either of them?"
Again, the Prophet tried. He weakly shook his head.
"But you can move your arm?"
The Prophet grit his teeth. Fingers unclenched and he did turn his wrist over, but lifting it, even a little bit, seemed to take every ounce of strength he still possessed. The exertion was immediately overwhelming. His breath hitched, his arm dropped like dead weight against his ribs.
"...a little."
The Mystic gently lifted, almost cradled, the Prophet's right arm. It felt so light, so fragile in his larger hands. The muscle was so thin, badly atrophied. He could feel every ligament, the edge of every protruding bone.
"I'm going to hold this up for you, okay? When I let go, I want you to try to keep it up. Do you think you can do that?"
"I'll try." He nodded weakly.
"Are you ready?" The Mystic paused, waiting for another nod before letting go of his arm. It fell immediately, the Prophet's muscles providing no resistance whatsoever.
"I... I tried..." he whispered between breaths.
The Prophet wasn't lying. The exertion was enough that he'd broken a sweat. The Mystic's heart fell along with his eyes as he reached into his bag for a compress and a waterskin, to gently wipe the sweat from his brow.
"Is this..." his voice faded out before he could finish the question.
They both already knew the answer, but the Mystic still finished it for him.
"The Armor of the Spectres? No one has ever survived long enough to reach a final stage, but this..." his breath hitched. He cupped the Prophet's frail hand in his own, rubbing the back of it with his thumb.
Four doses of the Blackbird's Elixir wasn't enough this time. And he wouldn't know until the next Blackest Night if anything would be effective at all at this point. If the Prophet's body even had the strength to make it one more month. It very well might not. Morbid weakness aside, the strain on his heart just to keep beating may be far too much now.
"I think..." his voice quivered. "This is likely how it ends."
The Prophet was silent. A labored breath escaped his lips. Then two. Finally, he spoke.
"Then we have to make haste..."
The Mystic looked up. There was still determination in those bright blue eyes.
"Tell Donya... that we need to get to Dog Territory as quickly as possible. Carry me if you have to... but we're leaving... Now... Time is running out."
The Mystic bowed. As long as he was living, the Prophet's word was law. "As you wish."