Tag: idea

writing-prompt-s:

alvstheinternet:

itsbroccoliboi:

writing-prompt-s:

You find out that your touch can heal people of all kinds of ailments from wounds, to sickness, to allergies, to poisons and the like. So you spend years helping those that come to you, from the paupers to the kings, and you always succeed. But then one day a woman from a far away village comes to you with her child. They have traveled for months to see you on a mere whisper of a rumor of you because you’re her last hope to heal her child. You do as you always do and reach out to the child to touch them on their arm. Your hand burns like it’s suddenly touching hot metal.

This is the child of death, and the burning sensation is your bodies reaction to death trying to take you. The woman, being the child’s birth mother is obviously in deep concern, thinking her young child is sick with some disease as they look pale and malnourished with sunken eyes like that of a man who hasn’t slept for days.

She insists that he is well cared for and is confused as too why he never has changed from looking so sickly and weak despite her best efforts.

You are not sure at all how to approach this situation having not the slightest idea as to what is happening. In your best efforts you try again only to find the burning is just as painful as the last time if not worse.

And then it hits you like a snowball in mid June, you can’t heal this child, not without dying.

This is what Death sent after you, for taking so many people away from them. You knew that Death wasn’t pleased by your actions, but you didn’t think he’d go that far.

You know that this ‘disease’ is not a disease, it’s a trap, made just for you. So that you will finally stop healing people who are supposed to die.

“Can you- Can you help him?”, the mother asks.

You look at the boy, who seems to already be half dead. “Do you want to live?”, you ask, knowing very well, that he knows that he’s drawn to death.

“I don’t want you to die”, he whispers, because he’s too weak to talk normally.

“That was not the question.”

The little boy looks up to his mother and nods.

“Okay”, you say, reaching out to him and taking his hand.

Your hand burns like you’re touching hot lava and you feel how your body gets weaker and weaker.

This will be the last one you can save. You can hear how Death is already walking towards you, as your sight goes black. They’re singing a cute melody, similiar to a song you sing to kids to make them fall asleep.

Your body is now completely numb, you can’t even feel the ground under your feet.

“Welcome home”, Death says, but they couldn’t be talking to the boy, you healed him. He is definitely alive and healthy. “I’ve missed you.”

This is beautiful.

itsmejoy7:

socialmediapeasant:

sinistercoffin:

writing-prompt-s:

All demons have a vague sense of precognition, so they only take children as payment from people who would become horrible parents.

I was raised in the Demon Orphanage.

You look skeptical. And who wouldn’t be? ‘Tis a rare thing to hear, but it’s true.

I know that sounds bad but really, demons are outstanding caretakers. They don’t need sleep or rest. There’s few beings more patient. Infernal magic is eminently useful. My education was continuous and organic. I didn’t so much attend class as I was simply around beings of incredible intelligence and knowledge who taught us as naturally as we breathed.

You wonder if I stayed all my childhood in the orphanage. I didn’t. But some do stay.

I was personally adopted by an archduke of Hell whose specialty was astrophysics. My mother taught ethical philosophy to other demons. My second father was a polymath and inventor. My boyfriend during my teenage years was raised by an astronomer and a tactician.

You seem to think Hell must be a terrible place for a child. Poorly informed as you are by the Roman Catholic Church and it’s many, often wildly ignorant, offshoots.

Hell is orderly and safe. The souls of the damned are endless and their punishment must be efficient. Those who have not earned punishments must not be punished, and are safer there than any other place in the universe. The darkest, most remote wilderness of Hell is safer for me than in the most heavily guarded fortress or vault in the mortal realm.

So why am I here in the mortal realm? Well, I must admit my second father’s curiosity is quite infectious. I wanted to travel and experience other realms. Those who stay in Hell too long eventually become demons themselves, and many do choose that path, but I didn’t. And Earth seemed a fine place to start. Of course, I had to support myself, so I took a commissions job that pays quite nicely. 

You shrug, limited curiosity sated. And put bloody pen to parchment. I was also raised in the old traditions.

I promise you won’t regret this.

My eyes are, perhaps, a bit too bright. There are, maybe, too many teeth in my smile. You shrug these impressions off as illusions. I’m a mortal, like you.

Oooooooooooo I like this one

I love stories like this!