Once, long before time struck its first hour, there ruled the mighty; The Undying. They toyed with their strengths, shifting the soils and dust, the ferrous liquids of the underworld, into their things. These Undying were stubborn, unyielding to the orders of the gods above whom moulded their very consciousness, who first observed in childish delight. It were not long before the feeling of cherished emotion turned to tire of their mindless frolicking. The Gods smit the Undying from their strength. No longer could they freely bend the code of Essence. In rebellion, the Undying promised to strike the gods with the very thing they loved more, their precious "Bodilies". With the Bodilies their vessels of destruction, they convinced the befleshed Bodilies to forge gems, imbuing them with the little strength of Essence they were left with.

The Blood stone, which would turn to the jewel that crested the sword of the first Holy Knight. The fleshed brick, which would guide the house of Turcs into their Golden period through conquest of the dying empires surrounding it. But most known is the Crown of the Summit Reservoir, of which, had been the centre piece of the long line of Popes.

These stones, these relics, these things, were called Corpses by its forgers and future collectors, since they tended to be found or re-discovered close to the derelict bodies of their former users.

Now, underground societies and unions persistently hunt for whoever wields the power of ancients, could rule the surrounding Life. Our little hero, Pyr, will soon see for herself the power of the ancients.

“Hey Nerd! I bet you’re helpless to spoke without using the first letter!” The Jock spoke.

“You thought you just did something there, didn’t you?” Replied the nerd.

“Well, sorry to bust your bubble, but numerous sentences could be constructed without employing the first letter of the English lexicon.”

“So to comprehend this discussion we been working on it’s entirely possible to hold a conference of couples like us.” The Nerd finish his spiel.

“No need to be condescending my dude” reply the jock requesting.

“It’s just form the Direction which is foolish in your person.” The nerd spoke smugly.

“Fuck you nerd.”

======================

Edit: okay I’ve fixed it. 👍

Once there were three yellow birds who lived on Lemon Tree Street. The little one, Fergus, didn’t like bird seed, so lived on worms. The middle one, Murdok, didn’t like worms, so lived on bird seed. The third bird, Trixie, didn’t like bird seed or worms, so bye-bye Fergus, bye-bye Murdok. But now I‘m too big to fly, so I write short stories. It’s not much fun, but it keeps me busy, I suppose. Would you like one more? Yes, it’s got birds in it. Of course. Bird stories is my thing, my expertise. Don’t like it? Tough titty.

Edit: Not a great story, but it met the required criteria. So that’s something.

My second story isn’t much better, but it’s different. Which is nice. Like I told my mother on the weekend when I picked her up from Bingo, it’s good to keep trying even if you never succeed. She didn’t reply, but just scowled. 12 months of Bingo without winning. She thinks it must be fixed. Benedict who runs the Bingo nights is French, which is why she finds him suspicious; she never liked the French. But she’s found some nice friends there who keep her from getting too down. She enjoys crossing out the numbers with her stubby pencil. She’s like Sisyphus, pushing her boulder up the hill, only for it to roll down. Just doing it is the thing; the result doesn’t count. “Yes it counts!” she yells, surprising me by knowing my thoughts. Keep crossing out those numbers, mom. You never know.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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My best friend is totally dysfunctional. I got her out of the pokey for the fifth time since November. She didn't give me the money for the rent she owes. Her side of the room is gross. Clothing strewn everywhere. Her bowl and pipe stink up the living room. She needs to go.

I tried to drive her out of the house with the phoney ghost but it turns out she likes ghosts. That weirdo medium she brought in didn't improve things. Horrible person.

I tried being up front but she was high. Interpreted everything like I love her. Perplexing and cumbersome miscues led her to set me up with her boss. Mildred. Yikes. For both of us.

I tried tidying up her mess. She just smiled and complimented the lovely smell in the house. Never even considered why it smelled so good.

So over this chick and her creepy friends and her disturbing music and her slovenly grossness. Done.

She will be home in ten minutes. She will light up in fifteen. No one will detect the poison I put in her weed. I will not be suspect. Her supplier will.

I already posted for a non-deficient roomie. The interview will be more rigorous this time.

I don't know how I kept going. The memory of the smell, the blood, the suffering will linger for the rest of my time. Its impossible to tell whether or not I truly tried my best, but I did it. If one thing is sure, its this curse brought upon myself, together with those like me is punishment for some unknown crime. I exit the light blue room where the rest of my peers left only minutes before, looking to see if I'm truly unobserved. I stroll onto the empty court, beginning to cry. I just won the Comissoner's Cup, on my fucking period.

-Note: I've never done a writing prompt before and I am incredibly sleep deprived (I wonder why) so go easy on me. I also know nothing about basketball.

„Do you know how long I worked on this?“ I shoot my little sister a furious look. „Three fucking weeks. Five fucking weeks, I need to turn it in tomorrow. You ruined it in five minutes.“ My sister sobs. „I’m sorry“, she cries while trying to pick up the broken pieces of my sculpture. „I didn’t intend to…. I didn’t….“ I close my eyes and slowly open them again. „Get out“, I tell her quietly. She quickly complies. Having closed the door I sit down to think. The house sculpture isn’t something I could just redo. I might glue the big pieces together but… I look up. Of course. Genius. Glue it up and put the other pieces infront of it. Old buildings crumble, with some luck Miss Hunter will support this style. I need to try. Not like there’s something else I could do.