Haha, that last bit.

“Well, yeah, man, I would be. Hey, she’s my daughter and just a kid, of course I’d be fine with it.”

I’m a woman, and I don’t get the question too often, not sure why. But when I do, and I say No, I really love it when they (usually complete strangers) say:

“Oh, just wait until you hit 30. Your biological clock will start ticking then, and you will change your mind.”

I love grinning at them and going:

“I’m 33 already, I think my clock might be busted.”

I suspect the same thing will happen once I hit my 40’s, and people will shift to “Before you know it, you’re 40, and it’ll be too late! That’s when the panic will start to set in!”

I got shite genes, but the one thing we got right, is visible aging. I mean, we all die long before the national average, but whatever. And we don’t even make pretty corpses, because of the bad genes fucking us up in our final years. But at least we look younger for longer!

Oooh, that’s so dope! Imagine a world where super powers are inherited through wills. You could have families fight over the will, to get more power, or a better power. People murdering loved ones, because they want to inherit super powers.

It’s cool!

I very much liked this prompt, because of what it got me to do. Thank you, OP.

It was the one too many stones thrown at her. The one too many mocking laughter. The youth, pimply and stupid, was still halfway through his pitchy cackling, when he was interrupted.

”That’s enough.”

There was a resolve to the deep voice, completely missed by the group of young men, standing before her.

“Holy fuck, it does speak! Ian, stab the thing, see what it does!”

The Ian of their group was all too eager to comply, but before his hand was able to retract the blade it had callously jabbed into the monster’s flesh, he was incinerated. Just like that, gone.

There hadn’t been a moment of hesitation on his end. The beast had been quiet that afternoon. A whimper of pain here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that showed any signs of distress. The stupid creature had taken their jaunts, as it should. So Ian had no doubts about whether or not he could use his blade, freshly sharpened, to slash a new wound into the gross oversight of his gods. This thing was an abomination. And he was righteous. It needed to hurt.

Only it didn’t.

A speaking dragon was rare, very rare. Not that it mattered. Much like the darklings of the south lands, speaking did not mean intelligence. It was still a beast. A beast, at his command, and for his pleasure. And if his pleasure meant that it be hurt, or even killed, so be it.

That is what Ian thought, in his final moments. Not nearly so concise, or even in real words. His final moments were in feelings. He felt entitled. Powerful. He was owed. And he wanted.

What he wanted most, in those final moments, was to hear the stupid thing roar. Admit it’s defeat. Admit that he was better than it.

Ian never did get his final wish. Final, in that it he would never make another wish again. He wanted to feel strong. Superior. Grand.

Instead, he only felt heat. Unbearable heat.

And the ringing in his ear, as the creature spoke again, louder this time. Loud enough that the young men felt it in their chests. A single sentence, ending with an eruption of flames, that filled the enormous cave the creature had taken shelter in.

”That’s enough.”

That’s because there is a very similar joke, where a woman goes to the doctor and says “Doctor, I constantly have to fart. Thankfully they’re silent and odorless, but it’s really bugging me.”

Oh you know, just some personal stuff. Nothing exciting, really. What about you? Any interesting tales to tell? Mobster uncle, spy mother?

Yup! Super vague, short answer, and immediately redirect.

As a secretive person (for good reasons), I have become crazy good at it.