Marcus V. Calvert's Blog, page 46

Writing Prompt #41--Old Years' Home

20 years after your Poli Sci major, you ended up becoming a laid-off nursing care specialist in need of work. One of your pals is out on maternity leave and asks you to fill in for New Year’s Eve. Do well and there might be some openings. You’re grateful for the opportunity and show up early. The sun’s setting and the patients seem normal. Then night hits and a trio of burly men drag in an old man (in his apparent 70’s). Kicking and screaming, he claims to be the Spirit of 2016 and that they brought him here too early. That he’s gonna lodge a complaint. They strap 2016 to a bed and dose him up next to this other old guy, who claims to be the Spirit of 1996. Needless to say, 1996 HATES 2016 with an all-consuming passion. Well into his apparent 90’s, the two “years” blame each other for how dark the world’s become.
What happens next?

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Writing Prompt #40--Get Him

In a not-quite-Dystopian future, you’re convicted of first-degree murder. You did it. The victim was an E.R. doctor/addict who operated on your kid while high. Even though you plead guilty, you end up on death row because of your military background. See, capital punishment and reality television have been merged. The game [insert name here] calls for anyone sentenced to death row to get a year of state-sponsored spec ops training (all filmed documentary-style, of course). Then, teams of five are assembled and armed with street-legal weaponry and tech. Locations are chosen at random. Yours is a patch of Everglades swamp dotted with traps, hidden supply caches, and drone cameras. Naturally, you’re being hunted by multiple teams of corporate-sponsored killers with the latest designer weaponry and gadgets. Cover the 24 miles of terrain and you’re free. After over 213 sessions, only 8 convicts ever made it through a game zone. You get stuck with four misfits who hate each other but don’t mind you—which makes you the de facto leader.
What happens next?

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Writing Prompt #39--Uploads

You duck behind a dumpster in a darkened, rainy alleyway. There’s a bullet in your vest and none left in your Glock. It’s likely that you’re gonna die tonight, courtesy of the small army of trained mercs on your ass. You’re on to them and have to die. The feds won’t believe you because you’re a bodyguard with assault convictions in your file. By now, they might even be framing you a murder you tried to stop. Your client and friend (Inkspot) was an up-and-coming rapper with a flair for hacking. His hobby got him killed. As he lay dying in your arms, Inkspot mumbled something about “proof” that all of this year’s platinum artists have a virus in their uploads. Anyone who watches their videos on YouTube or uploads them will get the virus. His last words were that “it’ll get us all killed.” His last act was to slip a fat thumb drive into your hands.
What happens next?

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Writing Prompt #38--Discord's Bow

Finally! After years of trial-and-error, you’ve created your masterpiece: a reverse Cupid’s Bow. It’s guaranteed to make someone try to kill the first person they see. It doesn’t require a quiver or arrows. Simply pull the bowstring back, aim at a living mortal, and a transparent energy arrow will appear. It does no physical damage and merely induces a one-time/one-target-only homicidal rage. Affected targets will go after the first person they see and never stop trying to close the kill until they succeed. You strap on multiple body cams to chronicle your dastardly weapon.
What happens next?

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Writing Prompt #37--Fiend

You have this same nightmare, where a monster chases you through your dreams. Different places, times, and happenstances for each dream. The longer the chase, the bolder you get. The stronger, too. Finally, you get tired of being chased and turn on your pursuer. In a medieval dream setting, you fight the fiend with everything you’ve got—and win. With your sword at its throat, the fiend begs for mercy and offers you a pact. Normally, it catches and feeds on mortal minds within a dream or two. But now, the fiend is now your defeated slave. By the code of its race, it must serve you (should you let it live). To survive, it must feed upon the minds of the living. Name a foe and the fiend will feed. With a smile, you wake up in your prison cell . . . on death row for a bunch of murders. You grab a pen and paper and start listing your targets—saving the D.A. for last. After all, someone has to screw up the state’s case and get you out on appeal.
What happens next?

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Writing Prompt #36--A Night Out

You’re a time cop who’s just saved the day again. After pulling many strings, Command’s authorized you to chill in your favorite era (the 00’s) and take in some concerts. You’ve got a doohickey to warn you if your actions have any impacts on the timestream. Halfway through a Jay-Z/R. Kelly concert, both performers pause to thank Eddie Kipko—the mad genius behind their careers. Curious, you google the nerdy looking cat and discover that he’s signed 9 out of every 10 platinum music acts since Madonna. Eminem, Bieber, Kanye, Rihanna . . . all under 30-year contracts with this guy you’ve never heard of. As Kipko takes the stage (to thunderous applause), you scan him and detect residual tachyon emissions. Shit. Somehow, this time traveler’s ‘jacked the music biz. You rush outside and make to send a message to Command when you feel the barrel of a Glock .70-cal at the back of your head. That particular gun won't be invented for another 20 years.
What happens next?

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Writing Prompt #35--Asleep

You’ve been in a coma for the last three months. A geneticist, being chased for his experimental serum, ends up in your room and doses you. Then he flees the hospital, only to get gunned down in the lobby. The people after the geneticist wanted the serum he was developing—a combat cocktail that enhanced the brain’s inner workings during stress. The formula’s worth billions. The gunman get away empty-handed and hack the security feed. Soon, they realize that the geneticist was in your room. They send another team (past the cops) to sneak you into a surgical bay and cut you open there. Once done, you’ll be dead and but they should have your organs and the serum. When this gets mentioned in your comatose presence, your eyes snap open. Even thought you’re still in a coma, you “sleepfight” with ruthless efficiency and kill every last one of them.
What happens next?

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Writing Prompt #34--Arrest These Merry Gentlemen

You share a discreet suburban crack house with four other partners. The money’s good and so’s the product. While you specialize in selling crack, you peddle everything from pot to heroin to LSD. After two years in the game, you haven’t been raided and the few cops who’ve bothered you merely wanted a cut of the profits—which you’re more than happy to share. This year, you even ran a Christmas special (10% off all product). Business is booming and no problems are in sight: until Christmas Eve. For some reason, a bunch of carolers show up on your lawn with two news vans. Instead of cutting loose with the normal Christmas favorites, they pelt you with drug-related parodies. Such examples would include: Jingle Pills, Arrest These Merry Gentlemen, Silent Meth, and Little Druggie Boy. Local news is running this, which means it’ll end up on tomorrow’s news (if not sooner). Worse, your cartel supplier might watch the news and decide to ice you (lest you snitch).
What happens next?

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Writing Prompt #33--Hate Mail

You’re a famed martial arts actor/actress, with dozens of mid-ranged movies. Folks recognize your face throughout the world and your bank account’s flush. Then, someone casts you in a non-martial arts movie . . . and you win four awards for the performance. Apparently, you’re a natural! Serious film offers are coming at you right and left. Your family’s geeking out with you at the massive fame-and-fortune opportunities. The roles keep coming and you keep passing on action movies, going with all kinds of other flicks. Some of your more die-hard fans send hate mail, accusing you of betraying them. When publicly asked about the hate mail, you say some careless things. A month later, your house explodes with you and your family inside. Only you survive with mild physical injuries. Here’s the problem: when you find out about your fam, you go nuts. You now belief that you’re one of your past movie characters—a hard-kicking street cop who ignores the rules and prefers gunplay over diplomacy. You steal a real cop’s badge and gun, and then go out for revenge.
What happens next?

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Writing Prompt #32--Take 1

You’re in the middle of a truly epic firefight. You and your elite marine space commandos are stranded in WWII Earth, surrounded by vampire Nazis and Japanese ninja with weird science and mystic fighting arts. The battleground’s a small village called Paris, which is in some country call Ecnarf. Most of the sprawling locale’s been flattened by weapons’ fire and Panzer tanks. Outnumbered and low on ammo, most of your men are dead and/or rapidly turning into vampires. There’s no rescue or means of escape. Worse, if you lose, then they’ll march over to Hawaii and burn the glacier into the sea. Just as you’re about to give a rousing speech of how Benjamin Franklin liberated the Spartan colonies from the Ottomans, in 1799, someone yells “Cut!”
A few seconds later, everything freezes: from falling shell casings to dying combatants—except for you. A tubby little German man with a bullhorn steps out of thin air and berates Histrionics for their piss-poor accounting of this historical battle. For one thing, they forgot to insert a swarm of mounted Musketeers charging up to defend the village. Secondly, since the vampire Nazis are fighting in broad daylight, they’ll need sunglasses (or they’ll burst into flames)—Duh! On and on he rudely rants, almost to the point where even you wanna shoot him . . . even though you’re beginning to realize that you’re nothing more than a slightly glitched holoprogram.
What happens next?

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