Spes Magna Games

I found this PDF of 365 writing prompts on-line. This morning, I hit 314 words on the prompt “First Light”. Yesterday, I posted the first part of a short story I’m trying to write. The story started as an eight-minute writing exercise. As I get more done, I’ll update the PDF at the Google Drive link.

Crawl

“Shh.”

My baby mewled again. He was hungry. I was hungry. We had to have food, which meant I had to crawl. All around us, total darkness pressed in. Squatting next to my son, I could feel the rough wall against my back. I knew the ceiling was just inches above head. I had to crawl.

I wrapped my son tighter in his blanket and then slid him into the hole I’d dug in the wall near the floor. He would be safe there. Scared, hungry, alone, but safe. Steeling myself against his cries, I did what I had to do. I crawled.

Through the blackness, feeling my way along with my shoulders. Left at the first intersection. Right at the next. When the floor turned from stone to loose earth, I knew it was time to dig. I couldn’t use the same hole as last time. They’d be watching. Each time I had to go farther, leave my son alone longer.

Dirt and stone rained down on me, sliding across my face, as my fingers dug into the ceiling above me. I felt something hard, the edge of an oblong box. It was heavy, and there was little room to slide it, so I changed the direction of my dig. A few minutes later, I squeezed around it, having hollowed out a large enough space, and so I continued to worm my upward. My tongue was coated with dirt, but I didn’t spit. I was making enough noise as it was.

Then, abruptly, a clump of earth and grass fell past me, and I could see first light. I could smell the watchers. One of them coughed. Another said something. I didn’t understand their language, but what he said made the other laugh. Their guard was down.

Fools. My nails could claw through their guts easier than they clawed through the ground.

Tags: #8MWH

Back to writing eight-minute writing exercises. I was rather ill all of last week and didn’t get any writing done that’s worth mentioning. Today’s prompt: The Last Man on Earth. I got about 376 words, but I went a little over time because I had to get to Ed.

Hey, Toots!

Most of the movies got it wrong. For one, a head shot didn’t necessarily kill a zombie. Take the head completely off? That’d work, but a bullet or knife all by itself? Not usually. The zombies were also fast, strong, and clever. They hunted in packs, and you needed to stay downwind of them if you didn’t want to get sniffed out.

Judith fled. The others fled as well. Stan was nearby, breathing hard, great raspy breaths. Alice cried as she ran. Others shouted. Expletives. Words of encouragement. Someone shrieked and shrieked and then stopped shrieking. Judith didn’t look back to see who it was.

“There!” Phil yelled, pointing to the left. “The school!”

Judith turned just as a zombie lunged for her. She could feel its fingers scrape down her leg, but it couldn’t get a grip on the denim. Phil was in the lead. He hit the door, slamming to a halt, and then pulled hard. The door opened, and Phil was inside. Judith caught the door before it closed. She paused, looked back. At least twenty zombies charged toward the school. Half of the group was done, being torn apart by fingernails and teeth. The screams. Judith would hear those screams again in her nightmares.

“Move! Move!” she shouted, pushing Stan as he staggered into the door jamb.

The engine’s roar announced the truck’s arrival. It was a big pick-up. A farmer’s truck, and it slammed through a pack of zombies, crushing bones and pulverizing muscle. The vehicle fishtailed across the street. The driver gunned the engine, and the truck surged forward. Another zombie caught the front grill in the back and went down under the tires. Judith stood transfixed. Alice ran past her into the school. She was still crying.

A few short seconds later, the truck skidded to a halt just a few yards away from Judith. The driver’s side window was down. Ed grinned at her, a toothpick clenched between his hairy jaws.

“Hey, toots!” Ed said, his eyes crawling down her body. “You remember when you said you wouldn’t go out with me even if I was the last man on earth?”

Judith rolled her eyes, stepped into the school, and pulled the door shut. Some things never changed.

Tags: #8MWH

Well, my grand writing plans last week got squashed under the heel of an awful head cold that has at last faded to a nuisance. Much of last week is a blur. I even missed OwlCon because I forgot which weekend was which. Yay.

This week, I feebly climb back into the saddle. I just got done updating information for my twice-monthly 1E AD&D campaign. I was going to work on details for Safe Harbor, the player-collaborated starting village, but I can’t find the notes or the hand-drawn map. Fortunately, I do have a scan of the latter. Grr.

Next up, a couple of new entries for Swords & Wizardry.

Transfiguration

Jesus took Peter, John, and James and went up the mountain to pray. While he was praying his face changed in appearance and his clothing became dazzling white (Luke 9:28-36).

Spell Level: Cleric, 4th Level
Range: Caster only
Duration: 1 hour

By means of this spell, the Cleric transfigures himself into a semi-transcendent being. His clothing and armor become dazzling white, and his features radiate light and power. Against living bipeds of human size or small, his voice gains the power of Suggestion, but hypnotic suggestions to perform evil actions automatically fail. The Cleric’s ability to “turn” the undead increases. He rolls 2d8+4 instead of 2d10 when attempting to affect the undead, and he affects 3d6 creatures of the targeted type. Those turned will depart and not return for 4d6 rounds.

Thrice-Blessed Wine: A Lawful cleric casts Protection from Evil on a bottle of fine wine (at least 50 gp value). He then stores the wine in a sacred cellar for one year and one day, at which time he casts Protection from Evil on it again. The wine is stored for another year and a day, at which time a third Protection from Evil is cast upon it, thus creating a bottle of Thrice-Blessed Wine.

Up to four cups can be poured from a bottle of Thrice-Blessed Wine. If the wine is consumed, the quaffer is healed 1d6+6 hit points of damage and gains the benefits of Protection from Evil for 4 hours. If the wine is poured or sprinkled in a doorway or window, no evil creature can pass through that portal for 4 hours.

Tags: Catholic, magic items, spells, Swords & Wizardry

Spooky Alert: I usually have music playing via Pandora when I do these writing exercises. As I prepared to write on the prompt “We’re Wolves/Werewolves”, I had a basic idea in mind. I clicked Pandora on my toolbar. The first song? “The Killing Moon” by Echo and the Bunnymen. Cue theremin music. Anyhoo, today’s exercise comes in at 288 words in the usual eight minutes. After the exercise, some game content.

Hunting Lesson

Father growled low in his throat. A warning sound. I slowed my approach. The man we stalked heard the rumble. He whirled left, then right, eyes wide, the scent of fear thick around him. The silver tip of Father’s spear glinted in the moonlight as the farmer clenched its haft in trembling hands. Father always armed our prey for these hunting lessons.

“Never underestimate humans,” he had told us with his human throat. “Their weakness is deceptive.”

Mother twitched her tail and flicked her ears. Sister and Younger Brother dashed to the left, deliberately making noise, shuffling leaves, snapping twigs. The man turned in the direction of their sound. His eyes squinted, trying to pierce the darkness that provided us cover but could not veil our eyes. Father snuffed gently, almost like a small sneeze. I hunkered down, creeping forward, my haunches higher than my shoulders, tensing, building energy for the charge.

Father had taken the man from the nearby village, ambushing him in the barley field. The man had snuck away from his home with a bottle of wine. He put up little fight. Father had taken dozens of humans over the years, both for us and for his earlier litters. I had once met some of my older siblings, but we seldom saw them. They had their own packs now.

Father’s howl ripped the night. Sister and Younger Brother rushed forward, but it was a feint. The man screamed, jabbing as he retreated. My siblings came nowhere near the deadly silver, but instead bounded to a halt and then split up, racing back into the darkness in two directions. Then Mother rushed the man. She was so silent. Only her deliberate growl warned him of her approach.

Lycanthroid for Mutant Future

No. Enc.: 1d6 (2d6)
Alignment: Chaotic
Movement: 180′ (60′) (wolf form); 120′ (40′) (human form)
Armor Class: 7 (wolf form); armor type (human form)
Hit Dice: 4
Attacks: 1 (bite) (wolf form); 1 (weapon) (human form)
Damage: 2d4 (wolf form); weapon type (human form)
Save: L8
Morale: 9
Hoard Class: XIX
XP: 300

Lycanthroids are mutant wolves with near human intelligence and exceptional cunning. They are pack hunters regardless of which form they currently have, those forms being either a large wolf or a seemingly normal human. Lycanthroids roam in packs, moving between human settlements and the wilderness as circumstances require. These mutants prefer to fight in wolf form.

Mutations: Combat Empathy, Epidermal Susceptibility (silver), Increased Smell, Metamorph (Pure Human), Regenerative Capability

Tags: #8MWH, monsters, Mutant Future

Today’s prompt: Sometimes Avocados Go Bad. Word count: only 198 in about 8 minutes.

Irritating Robert

“Aw, man!”

Robert’s cry came from the kitchen. I sat in the rocking chair, sewing a button back onto my shirt.

“What?”

“The avocados are bad,” came the reply.

“Must be the pits.”

A few seconds of silence before: “Don’t start.”

I grinned. “Start what?”

Robert appeared in the space between the living room and kitchen. He was holding a bowl of avocados. “The bad jokes.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t pun-ish you?”

I could see Robert’s jaw clench. It didn’t unclench as he said, “Seriously. I’m not in the mood for your nonsense.”

“Bummer,” I said, not meaning it at all. “I guess this means were not having guacamole.” I pronounced it gwak-a-mole. Long o in that last syllable.

“I’m warning you.”

“How about the quesadillas?” Pronounced kway-sah-dill-uhz. “You still going to fix those? Also, I could really go for a margarita.” I rolled the R.

The hand not holding the bowl of avocados joined Robert’s jaw in the clenching. I grinned some more, especially after I saw the vein in his forehead start to pulse. It’s really his own fault. If he weren’t so easy to irritate, I’d lose interest and move on to other activities.

Tags: #8MWH