It's easy to make a prompt for heroes and extraterrestrials. Comic books are well known for delving deeply into bizarre and strange scenarios after all, leaving plenty of inspiration. But after seeing so much of the fantastic, the impossible, its spectacle starts to fade. The whole thing starts to feel more lazy than interesting. Labels of Hero, Villain, Demon King, etc, all convenient check marks to let an author skip over details of who characters are so they can fit everything in nice little 500 word posts.

I consider putting up a prompt for more slice of life focus into those settings, but even that's overdone now. In truth, as nice as it can be to view those characters in such a way, more often they're robbed of gravitas as an author attempts to be witty. A Dark Lord getting coffee is amusingly absurdist the first time, but rendering them another person loses part of the presence that makes such characters intimidating in the first place.

If I just wanted to farm points then sure, what's it matter if the idea feels trite to me? Clearly the rest of the sub doesn't agree, and appealing to those who've yet to grow sick of it all can be nice. But that's not a good road to go down, tying my love of the written word to the approval of countless strangers. Binding my self worth to whether or not a work gets lots of clicks and engagement is more likely to kill my enjoyment of the hobby than anything else.

Perhaps something more grounded? I've enjoyed fantastical works on pre-industrial societies, highlighting the difficulties in making even the simplest building blocks of civilization. The magic of transportation a tamed horse can give and how incredible such a beast is up close even in a world with far more bizarre creatures. Or maybe something on ancient conflict, with emphasis on the mindgames that were so critical there. It was a rare battle that didn't end in retreat after all, whichever side lost their nerve and turned from marching soldiers to a terrified mob first.

Yet even as I think of it, I know I won't write it down. Because wadding through this sea of samey ideas only reminds me of what I'm using it to avoid. Crafting my own works, facing the misery of trying to bind a grand vision into corporeal form and only making a mess.

So I close Reddit. Ignore the highlight reels of more experienced or talented writers, and once again slam my head into the consistent failures that make up the learning process of any field.

The butcher of hell, the twisted trader, an alien in human skin, devil lord of jungles, and so many more. Fifty seven, to be exact, with hundreds of vaguely humanoid forms lingering in the fog beyond them.

I recognize them all of course. How could I forget even one of the faces that'd filled me with such passion as I gazed upon them and dreamed of their futures? As I sunk into the miseries that drove them and hatreds that gave them strength. The bonds that held them back from the monsters they should've been, the love they held for those around them.

But that love is gone from their faces. There is none of their ambition, their drive, the deeper thoughts I tried and failed to realize on a page. They snarl, spit, and writhe in a single horrific abomination. Each demanding the lives I denied them in my constant weakness.

Talia weeps for the family I forgot to give her, and the precious friends who never spent a true moment at her side. Her precious spellbook tumbles from her backback, the unnamed highschool's logo indecipherable. She'll never have to face the horrors that lurked in her small town, but she'll never grow beyond a scared child.

Thuja's roar of fury would've inspired legions to fight and die at his side, had they ever come into being. His hellish comrades would've grounded the blind rage of a young man who never knew love of any fashion beyond his draconic steed. Amid the conquests carried out in the name of a distant monarch that claimed to be his father, he'd have found everything he ever wanted among the conquered peoples. But his war never was, and thus he remains a boy filled with aimless hate.

None of them speak, I gave them no voices, but the message is clear. I'd thought them safe in the confines of my mind, free from the pathetic thing's they'd surely become if taken out. But there is no safety here, only a prison. They don't tell me what must be done to make it right, because I already know.

So I open my eyes and leave the bed. Feed and water myself, make sure my schedule's open, and flip open my laptop to write the worst story I've ever written.