Writing Prompt:
“In an overpopulated world, even the smallest crimes are punished by death.”


Susan got a stoning when she stole a silver whisk
Bernie was beheaded just because he burned a disc
Robbie got removed for leaving wrappers on the ground
Dana was decapitated (dog was in the pound)
Jennifer’s jaywalking got her gas up in her lungs
Hubert hacked a homepage and then he got #hung
Finnagan was fumigated ’cause he liked to flash
Dan was drawn and quartered ’cause he liked to dine and dash
Ellen earned electrocution turning left on red
Kimberly was keelhauled when a copper said she sped
Norbert nabbed some napkins, now he’s underneath a lake
Willy stole my wifi, freaking burn him at the stake


Original Prompt: Reddit – Punishable By Death



Writing Prompt:
“You pay a visit to the chap in the old castle atop the craggy mountain peak, which always seems to be experiencing a thunderstorm. Despite the narrator’s attempts to paint him as such, he is not a bad guy, and he is getting annoyed with the stereotype.”


I glanced wistfully at the crumb-strewn dish where a dozen hot blueberry muffins had rested not long before. I made a mental note to ask Dennis for the recipe before I took my leave. That streusel topping had been absolutely delightful. Belly overfull and feeling a nice, sleepy wave of relaxation wash over me, I turned my full attention once more to my host. “Thanks so much for the food. The hike up really got my appetite going.” Then, thinking that there was no time like the present, “Maybe I could get the recipe before I leave? Those were fantastic muffins!”

Stroking his grey-streaked beard malevolently, the cruel Duke of Thundersummit Keep turned to the captive young man and chuckled treacherously. “Oh, stop it, they’re nothing special. If you insist, though, I’ll jot it down once I’ve finished cleaning.” The perfidious profligate plunged the rusted old muffin pan into the dank and dirty dishwater as though trying to drown the life out of some innocent woodland creature. “I’d hate to bore you while I’m washing up. There’s some reading material on the table in the parlor. Why don’t you go read off those baked goods and I’ll join you shortly?”

I agreed wholeheartedly with the idea, and retired to the parlor. The armchairs there were built to a standard of comfort I hadn’t realized was possible, even if they looked a little dated. Between the plush seating, the distended stomach, and the Study of Botany I had chosen to read, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that I soon dozed off. My slumber was too light and too brief to dream, but pleasantly restful. I was roused by Dennis.

A gnarled, warty old hand took the young man’s shoulder in a vice-like grip, and violently shook him back and forth. “Here,” rasped the dastardly Duke. With his other clawed extremity, he proffered a goblet containing a vile-looking potion, as dark and putrid as the soulless man’s own black heart. “Pinot Noire, from the vineyard two fiefdoms over. Excellent vintage. Do you smoke?” Setting the goblet on the grotesquely carved table next to his grandiose throne, Wicked Duke Dennis slunk to the nearest bookshelf and retrieved a suspicious wooden box, one covered with strange and ominous runes and smelling strongly of mysterious and unfamiliar herbs.

“Not really,” I said. “No offense.”

Outraged, the volatile tyrant slammed the box back down on the shelf and shouted at his prisoner, “Eh, to each their own. And I didn’t slam it.”

I nodded. “It’s true, he was quite civil about it.” I couldn’t begin to imagine how difficult it was to live with an antagonistic narrator.

The contemptible cur rounded on the innocent young man threateningly, fist raised to strike his unsuspecting detainee. Lightning split the sky outside, harshly backlighting the deceitful Duke. In a low growl that would curdle blood, he intoned, “Never mind him, it only eggs him on. I shouldn’t have said anything. So, you were looking to expand your farmland and need an investor, correct?” It was clear that the bloodthirsty despot was on the verge of a homicidal rage.

I considered for a moment. “Actually, I think we should address this narration issue first. It can’t be easy to run a duchy with this misleading account. Why is he like that?”

The prideful and vain old villain twirled his waxed mustaches maliciously before replying. “I wish I knew. He wasn’t always like this.” He laughed nefariously, fully aware of his wrongdoing and reveling in the narrator’s anguish like the heinous malefactor he was.

I glanced at Dennis with a knowing look. “If I may wager a guess, it would seem to me that your narrator is holding something against you.”

The despicable Duke, less evil mastermind and more oblivious dolt, had clearly forgotten how, in a moment of callous and causal cruelty so long ago, he had remarked to an acquaintance on his devoted narrator’s “forced British accent.” Upon being confronted for his wrongdoing, he stammered like a blithering idiot, “Wait, that? That was years ago! You’ve been holding a grudge this whole time?”

Before the inept and heartless Duke Dennis could restate the obvious yet again, the poor young man interjected heroically. “It may not seem like much of an offense to you, Duke Dennis, but clearly your narrator was hurt by it. Also my own narrator can handle my dialogue, thank you very much. Nothing against yours, I just prefer his first-person perspective,” I said, trying not to be too forward in a precarious situation.

The hateful and villainous blackguard snarled and spat, “…you’re right. I didn’t realize I’d been hurtful, but ignorance is no excuse. I’m sorry, narrator. You shouldn’t have had to suffer all these years, and I hope you can forgive me.” The depraved lowlife… the loathsome… the… unpleasant… Dennis. Dennis concluded his heartfelt apology, and felt warmth well up from within. It felt good to do right by those close to him, and to earn forgiveness in return.

I smiled, watching a man I had grown to like very much over the last few hours mend his relationship with his estranged narrator. They’d both been suffering unnecessarily for so long. How strange that a chance visit from a lowly farmer such as myself could have been the catalyst to repairing their rapport. It was a touching scene, and it truly made me appreciate how well my own life had been going. I resolved never to take my own narrator for granted, even if sometimes I’d prefer wrapping up a tale like this one without a long-winded summary of events at the end preventing me from concentrating or getting a word in. Of course, I’m just an uncultured bumpkin who couldn’t recognize talent if it was following me around narrating my life every day. If I were any more boorish, people would throw rocks at me when I passed by. I’m little more than an inbred yokel who likes nothing so much as inviting my cousin over to– “Wait a minute…”


Original Prompt: Reddit – Antagonistic Narrator


The Corporation and the Hacker

Writing Prompt:
“Classical stories adapted to a cyberpunk setting”

Once when the wealthy and corrupt Board of Directors for a huge international conglomerate was assembled for a shareholder meeting, the youngest boy in a poverty-stricken family living in one of the countless slums of his country began infiltrating the conglomerate’s database with a computer he’d assembled from spare parts he’d found. This soon alerted the Board of Directors, who tracked the naive boy’s IP and called in a band of ruthless mercenaries to bring him in.

Mercy, oh B of D,” frantically typed the low-income youth: “forgive me this once, and I’ll never forget it: who could guess how I might be able to benefit you in the future?

The Board of Directors was so amused by the notion of this youth being able to help them, that they called off their mercenaries and let him go free.

Some time later the conglomerate was caught in a particularly nasty lawsuit, and the attorneys who wished to bring them to justice for unsanctioned human experimentation with biological implants, tied the Board of Directors up in court while a group of plucky tech-enthusiasts covertly accessed their mainframe.

Just then the naive youth happened to find encrypted data on the dark web detailing the plucky group’s plans, and seeing the dire straits in which the conglomerate was, brute forced his way into the mainframe as well and soon had heavily encrypted all incriminating data and hidden it away behind an impenetrable firewall.

What did I tell you?” messaged the youth to the Board.


(This is a re-imagining of Aesop’s fable The Lion and the Mouse)


Original Prompt: Reddit – Classical Cyberpunk

The Corporation and the Hacker

Physics and Medicine Don’t Mix

Writing Prompt:
“Online surgery simulator games have become incredibly popular. In ‘unrelated’ news, hospitals across the nation have been installing robotic surgeons for patients with less than stellar healthcare.”

Curtis Kaufman sat in his armchair at 1:30 AM, his third glass of chardonnay in his left hand and a remote control in his right. It had been a long night. This class action suit aimed at District Vigor Policy had been keeping him very busy. It was his first time butting heads with such an expansive corporation, and he knew that if he missed any detail he’d be canned from his firm.

So Curt had spent the last twelve hours reviewing hospital security footage of the hundreds of “unrelated” botched surgeries that had occurred over six months across the nation. It was tedious, exhausting, and disturbingly gruesome work. Every video submitted to him showcased brutal injuries suffered at the hands of the new “BOSSArm-SS13” units that DVP hospitals had installed about a year before. The units consisted of a pair of robotic arms on an articulating base, programmed to recognize and repair most surgical issues with minimal human input. They had been intended to be a boon to low income families, a surgical option that didn’t demand the exorbitant fees of a human surgeon. They were touted as “revolutionary,” and had seemed as much for a time.

Curt shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and restarted the video. He could not keep getting distracted. He wasn’t even halfway through the submissions, and was tasked with reviewing the lot and taking time-stamped notes on all of them by Thursday. The video began to play again, and Curt watched as the BOSSArm-SS13 unit came to life at the foot of a patient’s bed.

He watched as the robotic arms rotated in a surprisingly crude manner, jerkily spinning along the Z-axis first, then the X, the fingers clamping down and releasing, sometimes individually, sometimes in sync. The arms seemed to rotate at random for a moment, perhaps calibrating? Each video showed different behavior, so it was difficult to come to a concrete conclusion about anything.

Luckily the poor man on the operating table had already been anesthetized, and so was unaware of the fate he was about to suffer. He lay still and unconscious as the metallic limbs lurched into a position over his chest. The hands twisted down to hover near the man’s cheeks. The SS13 unit began to smack him in the face repeatedly, persisting for a solid 30 seconds.

The left hand continued to strike the unfortunate patient while the right reached over to the adjacent instrument table to clumsily retrieve a plexor, scattering an assortment of other tools in the process. Curt sat and watched in silence, desensitized after seeing similar so many times before.

The right arm brought the tiny mallet back and started lightly tapping the man on the forehead, while the left arm convulsed downward along the patient and started rapping his exposed gut. The mallet jumped from forehead to nose, to lips, back to forehead, back to lips, to left ear, and finally came to rest lodged inside the man’s nostril. Both hands suddenly bent into obscene gestures, twitching forward into the mans face and squishing his cheeks together. This was the kind of behavior that baffled Curtis the most. Was this the work of a disgruntled programmer? Could a robot learn the meaning of obscenity?

He knew what was coming. The left arm knocked a set of scalpels out of its way in favor of a milk frother that had somehow worked its way into the operating room. The right arm ignored flexible cameras and sutures in favor of a cordless power drill. Both arms slowly came together to rest high above the prone figure, hanging with ominous potential energy for a long moment. Then the BOSSArm-SS13 commenced a wild and revolting series of uncontrollable paroxysms that forced Curt to turn away. Perhaps he wasn’t as desensitized as he had thought. He jotted down a few more notes and ejected the disc. Printed on the label were the words “09/06/20 – D. Perkins, Mole Removal.” Baffled as ever, Curt placed the disc back in its sleeve and reached for the next.


Original Prompt: Reddit – Surgery Simulator

Physics and Medicine Don’t Mix

The Louisville Lip

Writing Prompt:
“Just as Jafar is about to convince the Sultan to marry his daughter Jasmine to him, wild cheering can be heard outside the castle walls. Upon further inspection they see a crowd of people welcoming the arrival of a foreign prince, Muhammad Ali!”


Hey, clear the way to the roped off ring,
Hey you! Let us through, it’s the boxing king,
Just don’t piss him off, or he’ll stuff you in the can!
Get up!
Grab a beer!
Clap your hands!
Scream and cheer!
You’re gonna love this man!

Cassius Clay – Such a B.A. – call him Muhammad.
Knock you out in the first bout,
Flat on your ass.
The Greatest, that is for sure,
The pugilist we prefer,
So come and see the incredible fighting Cass!

Mr. Ali – I guarantee, he’ll take the title.
Stronger than other great men, don’t you agree?
Sent Liston running in fear!
And he brought Foreman to tears!
The best at kicking your rear –
Muhammad Ali!

He had three separate heavyweight titles
56th win in ’78
He’s an expert at hitting your vitals
Has he gotta right
That’ll end the fight!
Oh, I’m telling you that he’s great!

Cassius Clay – better make way, or he’ll destroy you.
The People’s Champ – sounds a bit camp – his sobriquet,
Just watch the ladies all scream
And see the fellas turn green
A lean, mean, fighting machine!
That Cassius Clay!

All this time, he has only five losses
Started fighting before puberty
In a game, he’d beat all of the bosses
Making them drop
With a right chop
It’s a wondrous sight to see!
Oh, Ali!
Muhammad Ali!

Mr. Ali – from Kentucky, he is a winner.
Jasmine may land him today, if she’s lucky.
He’s an unstoppable force,
No mercy and no remorse!

‘Cause no one can hit
What they can’t see,
Floats like a butterfly
Stings like a bee,
He ducks and shuffles and jabs and pummels
And wins the scuffles with glee!
The Greatest!
Muhammad Aliiiiiiii!

Original Prompt: Reddit – Muhammad Ali

The Louisville Lip

Yob Tvoyu Mat`

Writing Prompt:
“You will die if you tell a lie. Saying things like, “See you tomorrow” is a very risky procedure.”

At long last, the atmosphere was perfect. Stuart had gone to extreme lengths to make it so. Total sensuality was the goal, and he was finally confident that he’d achieved it.

He’d put in days of thorough research to cobble together an ultimate play-lust, carefully crafted to take listeners from first meetings through thrilling new discoveries and onward, deep into the throes of passion. He’d formulated and prepared a signature dish containing rare Fugu fish from Japan, Vietnamese cobra blood, Peruvian Maca root and Durian from Malaysia, all disguised as a tempting stuffed veal cutlet with a glass of Barbaresco and chocolates to follow. It was in effect a potent love potion. Well, a love-making potion. He had even dropped a pretty penny on some natural Agarwood to fill his home with a scent that would allegedly make the loins quiver. It was a shame he wouldn’t get to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Stuart was good friends with one of his coworkers, a very attractive woman in her early 30’s named Cherie. She was a Quality Control Technician at the facility where he worked. Over the last two weeks he had been carefully and clearly talking up one of the Salesmen, a… difficult person named Brad. As much as he hated to do it, he had become the catalyst for their relationship out of necessity. He had slipped up, and there was only one way out of it.

And so, tonight’s blind date. It was Brad and Cherie’s first official evening together outside the workplace, and that pri… insufferable man was going to need all the help he could get to go all the way. Was it worth the thousands of dollars spent, the weeks of his life dedicated to getting another man laid, the knowledge that he’d have to burn his bedsheets and sanitize his whole home? Yes. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

Stuart stuck around just long enough to let the pair into his home and show them around briefly. He forced a grin through their thank-you-so-much’s and their small talk. Then he let himself out, explaining that he had “matters to see to.” True enough. Using the approaching darkness as cover he quickly made his way around the side of the house and crouched in the bushes under the dining room window.

An hour passed. Stuart’s calves were aching from holding a squat and his exposed arms were itching from a myriad of minute scratches. He grouchily reminded himself that it was worth it, that this was his only option. Bitter medicine, indeed. He’d be very careful in the future not to use expletives to describe others except in the most literal sense, no matter how well-deserved they may be. He refocused on the conversation between Brad and Cherie, barely audible through the pane glass. “So, Cherie, how’s little Jamie doing? Still a handful?”


Original Prompt: Reddit – Death by Lie

Yob Tvoyu Mat`

Attributes Out

Writing Prompt:
“An Inside Out-esque scenario, but instead of the emotions being personified it’s the stats of an RPG (e.g. S.P.E.C.I.A.L. from Fallout).”

Hidden away in the dark lurked a foreboding room. There was no entrance, no exit. The walls were carved from living stone, intricately detailed and unfathomably old. A ring of carefully sculpted pillars supported the cobwebbed ceiling, depicting fierce battles and legendary treasures. In the center of the room stood a shaft of rowan wood, twisted and ornate but seemingly naturally occurring. Rather than branch out and bloom, however, it ended entwined about a softly pulsating crystal the size of a man’s fist, the source of the soft pink light that illuminated the room. A thick blanket of mist shrouded the floor, appearing to glow with the light of the crystal. It slowly wafted back and forth, swirling slowly about the pillars, as well as the robes of the six dark figures that stood silently arranged around the central shaft.

The largest of the six stepped forward to the spire, swept back the hood of its deep grey cloak, and placed one massive hand palm-down on the crystal. It flashed a deep red and grew suddenly brighter, throwing light around the room and on the face of the man standing before it. His rough, battle-scarred visage twisted into a sinister smile and he turned to his companions to speak, his hand never leaving its place.

“My comrades,” he boomed, “the obstacle before us obviously requires a full-strength offensive! I will gladly take over from here. Allow me to clear the path toward conquest and glory!”

The brute gripped the crystal tightly and focused. As he did, the chamber seemed to rock and shudder, as though the very ground beneath them protested. A second figure rushed forward and pushed the behemoth of a man out of the way, taking the crystal with it’s own more slender hand. It flashed a pale yellow that fell harshly on the angular face revealed by the now absent cowl of the second figure. The tall, slender and angry woman glared daggers at the first man, practically spitting her words at him.

“You fool! You can’t just rush headlong into this, we’ll all be killed! At least let a more dexterous professional such as myself keep us from being shot down before we begin. We have to flank the target, or we don’t have a chance.”

As the severe woman concentrated on what she was doing, the room seemed to tilt from one side to another, threatening to throw the remaining figures off their balance. In the midst of the developing chaos a shorter and much stouter man flipped back his hood and trundled up to the shaft, seemingly oblivious to the rolling floor. He plopped one hairy-knuckled mitt on the crystal and the room took on a sudden emerald hue. He completely ignored the woman who had been there before him and who was now pummeling his thick head with a flurry of impressive, but ultimately ineffective, blows.

“You know,” he said, “we should really leverage our superior constitution. Just prove we can take whatever is thrown at us.” He grinned. “Wear ’em down, that’s what I always say.”

He stood stock still at the rowan staff, not seeming to make any effort in particular. Meanwhile, the room began to develop a faint haziness, gradually obscuring vision and turning the brilliant green of the crystal into a sickly chartreuse. The remaining figures removed their hoods, as though they were having trouble breathing easily. One of them, a young man of very slight build, rushed forward and pinched the simple man’s nose until he was forced to comply and step back from the staff. The newcomer swiftly stepped in and placed his palm upon the crystal almost disdainfully. The light turned a rich and dark purple, and the young man rolled his eyes at his compatriots.

“Have you no intelligence whatsoever? Are you attempting to eradicate the lot of us?” He turned back to the crystal and closed his eyes. “I surmise it’s left to me once again to rectify the situation. Kindly remain stationary while I present our adversary with an indefatigable and irrefutable debate. We will certainly emerge victorious momentarily.”

An elderly woman stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Son, I think it might be wise to hand the reigns over to me. It’s said that discretion is the better part of valor, and that seems quite prudent at the moment.”

The young man hesitated, but eventually bowed to the wishes of his more experienced senior. The crone set her gnarled and bony fingers on the crystal, changing it to a calming indigo color. The haze left the room, the floor settled, and all the figures took a deep breath of relief. All but the last one.

The remarkably handsome gentleman swaggered forward and draped one arm around the wise old woman. “Granny, you do a great job around here. You know that, right?” He aimed a white smile and a wink at her. “But I said it before and I have to say it again. This is a job that requires finesse, appeal, a certain je ne sais quoi. This is a job for… Charisma.”

He wrested the crystal from the woman’s hand, and the chamber was once again bathed in a soft pink light.

Ashley watched in growing confusion. She had been enjoying a drink with a couple of her friends, grooving to the music, when a handsome young man had caught her eye. She had thought to flirt a bit, since he was pretty cute, after all, but that was certainly off the table when he abruptly turned to the stranger next to him and knocked the guy out cold with a wild haymaker. He proceeded to take out three more random clubgoers with vicious blows before the crowd withdrew from him in terror. With a ring of onlookers watching in bewilderment and fear, the young man squared off against a single brave fellow who had taken it upon himself to bring down this strange assailant. The young man had ceased his own attack entirely, dodging and skipping around in a manner completely different from his previous straightforwardness. It was bizarre to watch, but the club’s heroic defender never landed a blow on the mysterious stranger.

Abruptly the elusive young man ceased his skipping and calmly strode over to the bar, where he began downing the shots that remained there. The defender saw his opportunity, and launched himself at the stranger. As his attacks had no effect, however, he slowly came to a frightening conclusion and retreated.

The violent young man finished his twelfth shot, wiped his mouth, and staggered over to the table where Ashley and her friends sat, trapping them in the booth. He proceeded to present a detailed and convincing series of reasons why Ashley’s companions should, in essence, beat it. They needed little convincing, and as soon as they were fairly certain it was safe to move, they both made a dash for the club exit. So much for friendship.

Ashley was frozen with sheer disorientation, and watched helplessly as the unstable young man turned toward her and took a deep breath to say something. However, he instead abruptly turned around and headed toward the club exit himself without a word. She was just beginning to get a grip on herself when he paused at the door, turned back, and jogged over to her table once more. He sat down next to her and smiled, oblivious to the panic behind him and the sound of approaching sirens.

“Do you like my new jacket?” he murmured.

Falteringly, she stammered, “Y-y-yes?”

“Do you know what it’s made of?” he crooned.

Unsure, she ventured, “…No?”

The young man pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, put them on, and grinned again, coyly.

“Boyfriend material.”

And that is when the police burst in.


Original Prompt: Reddit – Inside-Out

Attributes Out