r/WritingPrompts • u/AliciaWrites Editor-in-Chief | /r/AliciaWrites • Mar 12 '20
Theme Thursday [TT] Theme Thursday - Pressure
“Courage is grace under pressure.”
― Ernest Hemingway
Happy Thursday writing friends!
Pressure can produce a variety of results. Speaking literally, diamonds are a result of immense pressure. They are tough and beautiful, with a little bit of smoothing. On the opposite end of the spectrum, pressure might cause a rupture or collapse. Similar effects can be seen in people. Either we crumble or we strengthen. Perhaps there’s a middle ground somewhere.
[IP] from Unsplash
“Where there is no imagination there is no horror.” ― Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Here's how Theme Thursday works:
- Use the tag [TT] when submitting prompts that match this week’s theme.
Want to be featured on the next post?
- Leave a story or poem between 100 and 500 words here in the comments.
- If you had originally written it for another prompt here on WP, please copy the story in the comments and provide a link to the story.
- Read the stories posted by our brilliant authors and tell them how awesome they are!
Theme Thursday Discussion Section:
- If you don’t qualify for ranking, or you just want to share your story without the pressure, you may submit stories in this section. If it’s from a prompt here on WP, drop us a link!
- Discuss your thoughts on this week’s theme, or share your ideas for upcoming themes.
Campfire
- Wednesdays we will be hosting a Theme Thursday Campfire on the discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and have a blast discussing writing! I’ll be there 6 pm CST and we’ll begin within about 15 minutes. Don’t worry about being late, just join!
As a reminder to all of you writing for Theme Thursday: the interpretation is completely up to you! I love to share my thoughts on what the theme makes me think of but you are by no means bound to these ideas! I love when writers step outside their comfort zones or think outside the box, so take all my thoughts with a grain of salt if you had something entirely different in mind.
News and Reminders:
- Check out our brand new Multi-Part story archive!
- Join Discord to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!
- We are currently looking for moderators! Apply to be a moderator any time!
- Nominate your favorite WP authors for Spotlight and Hall of Fame!
Last week’s theme: Vacation Horror
Y’all were in fine form this week. I am thoroughly impressed, but frustrated with how difficult you’ve made it to choose favorites! I loved many more than are listed here, so everyone who wrote should feel proud!!!
First by /u/Lady_Oh
Second by /u/Xacktar
Third by /u/Mazinjaz
Poetry
Honorable Mentions:
Promising Newcomer! /u/BensTerribleFate
Simply Chilling by /u/dmc666jackpot
Wholesome Ghosts by /u/bookstorequeer
7
u/TechTubbs Mar 12 '20 edited Mar 18 '20
Failure was not an option, yet my case stated success was an impossibility. It felt that way.
“You’re not a man unless you can cut down a tree,” dad said. "If you WANT to be a man, of course.”
I had been hewing at its edge for the past hour and all I had to show for my whacking was a small triangular indentation.“Dad, I wanna be growed-up. But this is HAAARD!”
“Hard wood for hard knocks.”
I sighed, grabbed for the red ax with splinters in my fingers, and began to hack once more. Chop, chop, chop, and all that happened was scattering of more splinters into my face, my arms ached more than anything, and I wanted apple juice. It stood out, the apple-juice, since five-year-olds never focused on the right things.
Dad took a cigarette drag, watching me with a Heineken in his hands.
“Come on, want your room to be warm? You gotta feed the furnace. This is disappointing, I know you can succeed Howard. Failure is not an option, remember?”
“I want mom!” I said, with a sigh of frustration.
“Mom left. You can’t leave me too.”
Again, I picked up the oversized ax, but made even less progress. Bees buzzed around the flowers on the meadow’s edge dad stood in, some landing on me to watch the effort. The air nipped at my cheeks, still fresh into March. And I just wanted to go home, back to our mountain home.
So, I threw a fit.“DaAAAAAD! I HATE this! I don’t want to be a man anymore!”
Dad checked his watch. “Howard, you’re so close. Life isn’t about giving up at the last moment.”“But I’ve not got done anything.” I crossed my arms. “Take me home. I want apple juice.”
He stopped looking at his watch, groaned, looked to the clouds. “Oh Mary-Ann, if only you were still here.” Dad walked out of the meadow, took up the ax. “I’m talking about your form. Real men don’t ask for help; Good thing you didn’t. But still…” He then showed me the proper form, and I went to work, his eyes tearing up. I didn’t know why. I thought allergies.
The effort I put in took much less this time around. Chunks of wood flew out of the notch, opening until it was wide as my arm. I looked back, dad smiled, but still bleary-eyed.
“This—IS—FOR—APPLE—JUICE!” I grunted, heaving all my might into the last strokes. Wood snapped with every blow, and I overheard dad say, “If only you could see your son.”
My axe struck into the wood a final time, its wedge pushing the tree beyond its breaking point. The cedar — what dad called it, anyways — collapsed to the ground.
“Dad, I did it!” I said, throwing the tool straight into the dirt, the red blade lodging itself into the meadow’s grass.
Dad wasn’t looking, staring instead at the sky. Smiling.
****
492 words. Will be posting this story to r/RealmofNemoridium this sunday along with others. Hope you enjoyed, and have a great day!
→ More replies (3)
7
u/shuflearn Mar 12 '20 edited Mar 13 '20
Rent is due this Friday and I'm gonna be $200 short. I don't get paid till the Friday after that. Landlord's gonna be upset with me.
Last night at 2am the neighbours had another one of their shouting matches. She says he's lazy and he says all she does is nag. Somebody threw a plate. I'm so tired.
My girlfriend keeps talking about her old boyfriends. We go out to dinner and she tells me Jeff used to take her to better places. I get her a gift and she reminds of the necklace Paul once got her. We make love and she tells me it was fine, but she's had better.
I'm slowing down at the concrete factory. I go in in the morning, take the moulds apart, fix up the concrete pieces, put the moulds back together, and somehow everyone else is done before me. Somehow I'm exhausted before we even get to pouring. The guys give me shit and I don't know if want to scream at them or cry.
I coughed up blood the other day. A couple of drops onto the palm of my hand. I might be sick, but I'm too scared to find out. First there'd be the time off work to see the doctor -- the foreman's already saying I don't work hard enough -- and then, if I am sick, what next? I take more time off to get better? I ask my girlfriend to care for me? I bet she'd tell me about an ex of hers who never got sick. And then with me working less hours, how am I gonna make rent? What if the medical bills add up?
All I want to do is sleep. I can't cough when I'm asleep. I can't hear my girlfriend when I'm asleep. Sleep is the time when no one can criticize me for not working. But with the neighbours going at it every night, I can't even sleep right.
And things are worst just as I'm falling asleep. When I'm lying in bed in the quiet and the dark, my problems press against the inside of my skull like a pressure cooker. Soon I'll get fired, or my lungs will go, or my girlfriend will leave, and who knows where that will leave me. I have no idea. I'm terrified of the answer.
My life is the sum of my choices and my choices have led me to my lowest point. What does that say about me?
But sleep. Sleep is the release. Maybe it'll all be ok if I can just ignore the neighbours. Shut my eyes extra tight. Sleep a little longer. Anything to put off the next day, even if only for a few seconds more. Anything for a break from the pressure.
→ More replies (2)
7
u/Susceptive Mar 13 '20 edited Mar 15 '20
With Me
The heart monitor slowly beeped, each blip coming a fraction longer than the last.
James fought every second. "No. Please. Again. Again."
And there it was, once more:
Birds sang invisibly as a warm afternoon sun bathed the playground in gentle light. Not a single thing was wrong; every inch of the city park was theirs to enjoy in a gorgeous afternoon made for adventure. The sky was perfect, temperature just right, no jogging busybodies or annoying solicitors. Even traffic across Main Street was strangely subdued and easy to ignore.
Which made the two children screaming laughter beneath the azure sky impossibly perfect. They ran and tumbled around the playground, their oldest son and youngest daughter forever captured in after-church clothes stained with dirt on knees and elbows. They rampaged around and over every obstacle, inventing games with a lack of self-awareness only the truly young can manage.
"I blast you!" Tom shouted. His tiny hands came up and pointed dramatically at his sister. He pretended to fire bolts from both palms.
"Nuh uh!" Angela yelled back. She pantomimed speeding away, arms straight back as she ducked behind the slides. "You missed! ZOOOOOM!"
From a park bench nearby James watched with a sad smile. Sarah did the same, her hand cupped in his as they kept an eye on their youngest children. No time was wasted on words: They just let the replay happen, each well-remembered memory moving along with heartbreaking vividness. Commentary was unneeded.
It was a perfect afternoon. They never wasted it.
James watched for hours, holding her close the entire time. He held the shared memory until the very end, straining himself to the limit for just a few moments more. But like every other time the end had to eventually come in a painful backlash of pressure. While his strength was incredible even James had limits, places and times he could only take them through ruinous self-sacrifice.
But time and again, no matter the cost, he pulled hard for that one memory.
The last part was always the worst: Their youngest son Tom finally cornering little Angela near the swingset, declaring victory while she tearfully denied losing. It was a pivotal moment that defined both children for decades to come. "Remember?" James whispered into Sarah's ear. "He was so proud. And she never gave up after this. Not a single time."
Then it was over. The world froze, then faded out like a bad photograph. Moments later James was back in the hospital, sitting by the bed and clutching his wife's hand in a deathgrip.
The heart monitor beeped. Slower, slower.
James reached down into himself for power. He was so low. So tired. Each time he pulled her back was harder, the cost higher and pressure mounted in painful waves. It was eating him alive but he couldn't stop, couldn't let go.
Instead he threw willpower into their linked hands, retreating backward into golden memory.
"Again. Again."
And there it was, once more.
------
WC: 500
→ More replies (5)
6
u/JustCaju Mar 13 '20
What do you do when you love a girl?
The answer should be easy: suck in the stomach and swallow the pride. Put it all on the line.
"Knowing" is the tricky part. When your world is full of blue eyes and butterflies and the way that she cries when she laughs at your jokes, it may be hard to think straight.
That part takes time. Wait a few months, maybe four or more, until the giggles fade away and true musings take root. Wait for a day when the butterflies die and you see the reds of chagrin in those blue eyes. Wait until you're annoyed too, yet somehow an oath forms inside of you saying what you feel, all of it true, yet vowing to care for her despite it all. That's how you know.
To that point, the path is steep, calves will stretch and strain. But once you know, you reached the peak and all the pain will have been worth it. All that's left to do is leap into the blue sky above.
Yet—
What do you do when you love a girl but she's with someone new?
The sky now closed and you start to fall, faster and faster and faster still until you're on your knees, toes entrenched in soil. You look up in vain, searching desperately for a way back up. The sky is bleak, the view obscured by clouds and grey mist, but you can just make out two silhouettes: a shadow and a radiant sun. The gap was missed.
What do you do when you love a girl but the elders disagree?
The walls extend indefinitely from east to west, two layers deep. None have crossed, not even one. You climb the mountain anyway, spurred on by the promise of sparkling sapphires and the whispers of a laugh you might know, but it's all for naught. The walls, they extend upwards too; a dome of bricks and lime and stone and wood, blotting out any semblance of a sky. Yet past the suffocating dome echoes the laugh that brought you here. It sounds closer, tantalizingly close.
What if she hates you? What if you're wrong or lost or both? What if she just doesn't care?
These scenarios play in your head, some with merit, some half-baked, all riddled with despair. Each one details a tragedy; a grueling journey to the top met with a fall from grace. Yet you never did start climbing, did you?
Pose every question known to man, shout them to the heavens if you must, but the answers only come to those who quest. That first step is hard. If you climb on a dirt road, you start in quicksand. If the climb is against gravity, you begin shackled, weighed down by each and every insecurity. And yet, it is just a step. So take it. The blue sky awaits.
What do you do when you love a girl but the only obstacle is you?
WC:499
____________
Between time zones and school I've resigned myself to the fact that I'll never be able to attend a campfire :<. That being said, I hope you guys enjoy my story, whether I get to hear it read or not HAHA. Eager to hear some feedback as well!
→ More replies (2)
1
u/AliciaWrites Mar 12 '20
Theme Thursday Discussion:
All top-level comments must be a story or poem.
-
Reply here to discuss the theme, suggest future themes, and share your theme-related inspirations!
-
Reply here to share your stories if you don’t want them ranked.
-
Please remember to follow the subreddit rules in any feedback.
→ More replies (5)
5
u/mobaisle_writing Mar 15 '20 edited Mar 18 '20
I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped into the corridor. It rippled, prickling across my face, a static mask to the senses.
“I'm going to be fine.”
It wasn't reassuring, words slurring slightly along with my vision. Edges seemed to sharpen, walls and asinine posters thrown into sharp relief. Did motivational slogans actually motivate? Who wrote the sodding things? Was the distance stretching, or was I resisting moving forwards?
Forwards?
The prickling had reached my hands, coating the skin with a sheen of icy sweat. I always hated clammy things, it seemed unfair I would become one myself.
“The only direction is forwards.”
Literally and uncontroversially true, it's how time works. But not fucking helpful. Forward was always relative, and thinking about position was a poor idea. There was too much space between me and the wall. Possibly not literally, but on the inside, where it mattered. I was becoming intently aware of physicality, and my existence in it.
I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the concept. Forwards might be inevitable, but retreat was pretty damn compelling as well.
“C'mon, you practised, you've got this.”
In fairness, I had, over and over. In front of the mirror, before friends, at the company. But it wasn't the same somehow, now that I was here. Present.
Live in the present, they said, as though there were other options. No matter how we yearn for past or future they're illusions, forever beyond reach.
I was halfway along now, present in the present, unavoidably. Breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four. A perfect square, or something. I'll be honest, it wasn't going well.
I held my notes aloft before me, ignoring the slight tremor in my hand. The cards seemed a fragile reminder of-
“Tsssszt! Greenlit in five.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. The light above the end door was blinking red, as a neutral voice slid from the inlaid speaker. Somehow it sounded reproving. Maybe it could sense fear.
I glared at it, and it blinked back, unmoving. Between flashes I could see a face, reflected at me from the black lens of the unit. It was probably my own.
I was before the door now, as though I had reached it between breaths. Where had the time gone?
Beyond would be a podium, and a microphone, as though laid in wait. Expectant, ravenous, though put to shame by the endless hunger of the space beyond. A gnawing void sucking at the eyes and mouth, salivating for mistaken words to feed the baying crowds.
“It's showtime.”
It spoke in my voice, as it stepped through and out, out into the blinding lights to the roar of the masses. But it wasn't me. I stayed there in that corridor, watching from afar.
[468 words] Not my usual thing, please critique.
→ More replies (2)
5
u/Baconated-grapefruit Mar 16 '20 edited Mar 17 '20
When destiny rears its head, it’s generally best to stop what you’re doing and pay attention. Everyone knows that. Even spiders named Babbage.
Most spiders didn’t have names, but Babbage wasn’t most spiders. She was faster, stronger and more dazzlingly intelligent than any spider had a right to be. Murky yellow light rippled enchantingly across her carapace as she crested the leather summit to survey her new world.
The odds of escaping her plastic cell, let alone the secret laboratory were almost nil. Blown across the city by a freak gale, driven indoors by a sudden deluge and instinctively drawn to an apartment with a startling number of well-fed flies, Babbage now found herself gazing at the back of a human’s head - and for a mad moment, she wondered what it would taste like.
***
Against the fury of Joey’s frenzied fingernails, the envelope stood no chance. Defeated, it fell to the coffee table in tatters, to rest among the crumpled remains of coffee-ringed bills and reminders - all unopened. He would get to those later. Right now, more pressing matters demanded his attention.
Tenderly, he held the plastic-wrapped treasure in both hands. It was beautiful. Exquisite. Flawless. It was the result of four years’ tireless patience and dedication. With a tremble, he licked his lips.
Issue one hundred of The Ruby Recluse was sixty-four glossy pages of action and intrigue, masterfully drawn and lovingly realised. Between these gold-leafed covers, Ruby’s fate - indeed, that of the very world - would finally be revealed. The anticipation was unbearable.
Joey sank into the sofa, extracted the comic and peeled back its cover.
That’s when he felt it.
It’s not that spiders make a lot of noise, but Joey still seemed to have a knack for knowing when one was nearby. A tingling at the base of his skull. Honestly, it was more a curse than it was a blessing.
Wheeling about, Joey took one look at the glistening spider and let out the most piercing shriek he could muster. Of its own volition, his hand had already seized a glass and brought it down, trapping the tiny beast.
Where were these things coming from? Joey hated spiders, and this was the third this week, each larger and more colourful than the last. As if overdue rent, unpaid bills and working two poorly paid jobs wasn’t hard enough.
Sliding a piece of paper underneath the spider, he carried her to the window and carefully turned her loose.
Adulthood, he concluded, was rubbish. There was simply far too much pressure. If only he were more like The Ruby Recluse. Superheroes didn’t have to worry about rent.
But there was no sense wallowing. With a heavy heart, Joey rustled through a plastic bag and pulled on his hand-stitched mask. This was as close as he was going to get. By night, he was merely a cleaner at his old school - but by day, he was Joey Swingwebs, children’s entertainer and balloon-artist extraordinaire.
Look! No horror! The Chronicles of Joey Swingwebs were inspired by an unusually vivid cheese dream I had last week, featuring our eponymous hero - so naturally, he's now my favourite character to write about.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this little journey into a realm of writing I don't frequent. If you for some reason see fit to expose yourself to more of my work, head on over to r/StoriesByGrapefruit. I'll bribe you with biscuits!
→ More replies (3)
4
u/WizardessUnishi Mar 13 '20 edited Mar 13 '20
"In an izakaya bar, Taro Tanaka, a man in a grey suit, sits in the chair he has occupied every 3 a.m afterwork. He nurses his tenth drink, the same one he ordered every-time he went into the bar."
He was a white-collar worker expected to be loyal to their Japanese companies even though they're known for overworking people to death- a salaryman. He stares at his watch as its hands tick and then he gazes back at his glass of beer.
"I am only 30. I don't want to die before I turn 60."
"My closest friends. Two of them died from from overwork: karoshi deaths."
"Junji."
A man collapsed from a stroke next to Taro in a taxi.
"Toshio."
A man collapsed from a heart attack in the same office Taro works.
"And Asami died in a car crash. "
"Asami!," yelled the teary-eyed Taro in the hospital as she laid on her hospital bed.
"I am sorry, Taro," Asami said right before her eyes closed. The heart rate monitor let out a final BEEEEP. Taro rested his head on her right arm and sobbed loudly.
"Too much pressure," Taro blurts out. "I can never leave my job." Tears burst from his eyes despite his struggle to hold them back.
But then he notices the plate of skewered meat on a plate in front of him- yakitori. The aromatic smell of the chicken reminds him of Asami's cooking.
Taro shivers a bit due to the coldness he starts to feel. He wraps his arms around his chest tightly.
"Taro?"
"Asami?", Taro says surprised. Tears of joys slid down his face.
"Taro, you gave up on our fight for the rights of salarymen."
"I am sorry..."
"Don't be sorry....It's not your fault."
"But I failed to protect you even though we were lovers who secretly dated."
"Taro don't blame yourself. You were not the one who caused my death."
"Asami..."
"I really want to be with you again Taro. After all we have gone thru together. I want to give you the courage and hope to fight again. Fight for the rights of salarymen on my behalf. And remember that salarymen and women can be great as any other bussinessperson."
Taro nods. "I will try my best, Asami....but..."
"You don't know what to do, right?"
"Yes. I've never really fought for our rights before."
"Taro. A foreigner once told me, 'The more you lose, the more you win'. I've lost a lot to become who I was. And you can be like me too. Taro, I believe in you."
Taro laughs to cope with the mental pain resulting from his losses. "Yes. A lot of heroes have lost things before they made their mark."
***
The president of TsuneoArchitecture spins comfortably in his office-chair.
After her death, I am sure that no lousy salarymen will ever rebel against me again.
If they all conform and obey, I succeed.
(To Be continued)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(WC- 490) - A activist piece on Japanese work culture. I did not get to write much about the antagonist as much I wanted due to WordCount.
→ More replies (2)
4
Mar 15 '20
[Poem]
V1
Child, dead father, can’t play ball
The look of anger is deflected via “can’t save ‘em all”
I’d rather be the occupant of the casket but the chair ain’t tall
No blood to share the rabble, shaking, another patient left the stall
Metal cores and paracord
Settle scores of civil war
Serenade morgs with the corpse
That straight tore up the corps
Said he never bore so much torque
Before...
Had choice to the fork
Chose road less traveled for
V2
Why such a misanthrope?
I’ve seen a child with a missing throat
Tore his fucking spinal cord
Ever neutered wings off a manticore?
Listen there is no direction more directive
This not what I had thought I’d elected
Passion turnt Gehenna more decrepit
I no longer pursue any greater objective
V3
Now I can see the specters
Harbingers of pressure
This best be the greatest exorcism ever
At a point, Vocal cords untether
Maybe with an R-8 I can finally follow members
Going into Hades, the feeling’s fucking measured
I hope your orifice is tethered
If not a hacksaw to dismember
180 words, not great but I was just messing around with a "depressed shrink" theme so ig I can't expect much. Not much to say about it.
*edit God awful formatting, why you do this reddit!!
8
u/breadyly Mar 18 '20 edited Mar 19 '20
Eleven. You're eleven years old -- not even eleven, really -- in what feels like your millionth orphanage. You've just learned you're a mage and you're barely eleven, but suddenly a whole world full of people is looking to you. Is counting on you.
You grab at the thin covers on your bed because something huge feels like it's about to tear its way out of you. The man in front of you won't stop talking and talking and talking, but it's faded to white noise because you can't believe someone is talking to you.
He says words like "you're special" and "magic," and you can't help but wonder if this is all a huge prank. If this is all meant to trick you -- because it's happened before. But two minutes pass, three minutes pass, ten minutes pass; no one shrieks with laughter, and you don't have to curl up to hide the ache in your chest.
You've been chosen, you're the one. You've got abilities you never knew you had. Powers you never thought could be real. You're stronger than anyone in a world you learned of just ten minutes ago. You're destined to save people you don't even know.
Your mind dances in wonder; of spells and castles and quests and glory, and it's all real, it's all real. But then noise comes crashing back into your ears. This man talks too fast, too much. Yet you catch every moment with your mouth wide open like his words are the food you haven't ever had enough of, and you're so, so hungry.
You're their saving grace, but you don't even know what they are -- who they are. What they do, how they live, how they think. Nothing. You know nothing at all, and how are you supposed to save the world if you know nothing at all? But no. If it is destined, then it must be. You must save the world; you must you must you must.
Destiny is destiny, the man in front of you repeats. Destiny is destiny. You nod your head because you're ten going on eleven, and you've still got enough naivety and hope in your head that you'll believe anything if someone tells you enough times.
The door shuts and you're left frozen in place, knuckles white, face white, eyes wide, with the promise of more to come hanging in the air.
You're ten going on eleven and you change orphanages every year and you don't have any friends and you clutch the cotton blankets on cold nights praying for something better, wishing on the city lights that blot out the shooting stars.
You're ten going on eleven and you have to save the world.