CNF- Creation Story

 (My family's history is nothing special, so I wrote about something a bit different.)

When the child was born, everything was pretty much the same as always. A normal birth, nothing out of the ordinary. The parents were fairly normal themselves, as well, making the whole scene rather dull to begin with. For years, it would stay that way. As the boy grew up with his older sister, nothing spectacular would happen. Not until he got bored.
Up until then, he had been relatively simple for a small child. Joking around on a playground and laughing with his friends, and never really throwing fits or causing any sort of drama. He stuck like that until a friend of his wrote a story for his teacher. The boy decided to write one of his own, and set to work with his dusty paper and snapped pencil. As different ideas inspired by Harry Potter by JK Rowling and Eddie Dickens by Philip Ardagh popped into his head, he mixed them all up into one short piece of "writing." Were he to read it several years later, he would find it a complete mess. Still, his second-grader mind was intrigued by the concept of creation simply because he didn't understand it yet.
For a while he became lazy again, doing nothing of any use as children do. But in the back of his mind, characters from far away lands communicated with him. For two years, his ideas bit and scratched at his hardly-used brain, until he gave in around the beginning of the fifth grade. He sunk away from his peers, hiding in books and writing his own endings. He knew he wasn't very good at it, and that was all that kept him going. Reading The Hobbit made him feel inferior, as he should feel; his mind couldn't even conceive of the power in the words of JRR Tolkien.
Eventually, his words would fail him constantly, and he would give up for a week or two. Then he would begin again, the flame rekindled in his pen to create. To create a world for himself; a better world. And then he would fail again. And again. Again. Again.
He found that his selfish goals had led his thoughts away from his family and friends, those who allowed him to succeed in the first place. He went looking for help, but never found any. He checked in his heart, his mind, his soul. Nothing. But he checked in his pen, and hope flowed onto his crumpled notepad as he tried and tried again.
He still walks this vicious circle like a plot-line from beginning to end to beginning. It never would have happened without that simple, dull moment of his birth. Something so cliche to inspire something so convoluted doesn't make sense to him, nor to anyone else. But who really needs sense when you have whole legions to back you up from the confines of your papers? Creations as big as entire galaxies can rest on a single flash drive; and likewise, this plain, boring child turned out to be much more on the inside.
And he'll likely never get rid of it.

Character Development- Stubborn

Jackson Graham had never enjoyed school, and school didn't really appreciate him, either. He wasn't the most responsible guy around, and in classes he sat slack-jawed with his fist supporting the weight of his skull. He hadn't always been like this, though; he used to be a fairly good student. But the reason that he had snowballed into his empty-headed, lazy shell was put into action by his own procrastination and stubbornness.
"Come on mom, you do this every god damn day!" Jackson opened a Twinkie packet with his teeth and spit the wrapper into the trash, hurling his backpack onto the ground. "I'll do my homework after I play just a couple matches on Call of Duty, Matt is only online for like, two hours!" Crumbs sprayed from his mouth that hun open in exasperation, landing on the recently-mopped floor. Jackson stormed off to his xbox and played for five hours straight, not once stopping to think about the six page essay that was due the following morning. The next day, the routine continued and his grade dropped slowly into the abyss of his barren mind.
He continued to live through the eyes of Ezio and Commando Dom, never taking his gaze away from the rectangular, glowing entity that was his television. His xbox was never turned off, and he was never away from that plastic, cubic friend of his. His eyes had been told to never blink, and he forced them to obey his commands. Although his progress reports mocked him, he knew that the only A he needed was on his controller.
However, his own stubbornness eventually became the death of him.
"Mom, give it back! This is totally unfair, you can't do this!" He clawed at the hands that pulled away his box of joy, and he melted before his mother as she kidnapped it so coldheartedly. His grades would still not increase, and he remained stubborn as a jackass, but he knew somewhere in his rotten, blackened brain that he would never see his beloved games again.

Last Breath (150 Word Story)

Talon knelt down on the side of the road, blood dripping from his chest where the bullet had hit him. He clutched the wound and stared at his hand in horror, a thick coating of blood encasing his grip. The grimy slush below him turned red slowly as he choked and spattered crimson pots onto the snowy canvas. 'Let it all end,' he thought, and shakily grasped for the knife he had in his pocket, flicking the blade out of its shell. His eyelids closed in sadness and regret as his jaw clenched, waiting for the self-inflicted blow to free him. With a single, jerking motion of his arm, he brought death to his chest, and ribbons of blood celebrated their freedom from life. Falling over onto his back and gazing at his last breath in the cold night air of winter, his eyes shut for the final time.

CNF- Food Review

Around a year ago, I went with my family to a barbecue. My uncle was at the grill; the delicious, smoky smell of meat emanating from his post. He flipped hot dogs and burgers gracefully, with blinding speed, and when the were done they flew into buns. I remember taking a bite of the savory cheeseburger; with ketchup, mustard, pickles, lettuce and tomato, it was the perfect blend of flavors.
This was not that burger.
As I stumbled up to the counter, I was greeted by the pleasing aroma of bacon. My expectations were heightened, and I ran up to the stove where the patties had been laid out. I took out a plate and put the ingredients onto the bun as usual, stopping to place a mound of bacon in between it all. I did not, however, realize that the patties and bacon had been overcooked, and were tough and charred. I simply carried on and went back to the computer with my dinner.
When I took the first bite of that burger, I didn't notice anything wrong with it. I just tasted a whole lot of bacon, and of course that was perfectly fine with me. But after a little while my chewing slowed down and a bit of a frown threw itself onto my face. The tough and overcooked meat was difficult to chew, and I could hardly taste the bacon. To top it all off, the buns were stale and dry, which couldn't be countered by all of the toppings. To be honest, I wouldn't mind any of this had the bacon been okay, but it was rock-hard and as tasteless as the plate it rested on. I checked the date; it was my sister's turn to cook dinner. I immediately facepalmed and carried on chewing, cursing my sister for being the only person alive who could ruin bacon.

Alternative Prompt (CNF)

What's in a name? I know nearly nothing about mine, and yet it holds plenty of stories within. My first name, John, came from my late uncle John. But my father never really talks about him, and I'm not sure how he died or who he was. Although mysteries are usually intriguing and make for good tales, I had never even heard of him until I was around ten years old and saw a picture of him. He was fifteen when it was taken, and he looked surprisingly like I do today. Strange how that type of thing works out. My last name, Binsch, comes from a much more complicated story, involving Italian and German battles. Both sides fought on a battlefield called 'Vinsch,' and eventually the Germans started to call it Binsch for some reason. Many Italians have the last name 'Vinsch,' considering the battle was considered a huge success on their part. However, it seems that my family is the only one left with the German slang of that minor scrap of history as our namesake. Convenient, really, but again not too descriptive. All I know much about is my middle name, Rudolf. This came from my grandfather Rudy, who died when I was almost two years old. He had fought in world war II alongside the nazis, but was in a small, secret organization against Hitler and his followers. It must have been a troubling time for him, disobeying the nazi commander while forced to fight in his army, but he powered through it all and lived to tell the tale. As a pilot, he had taken in several bombs to deploy, but he never actually used one; they were taken into the tiny, nameless organization and kept safely until the end of the war. Rudolf died of a heart attack when he was seventy-two years old, after dealing with lung cancer and several other ailments for twenty years. And I'm proud to know that my middle name comes from an honorable man like himself. History is what's in a name, and those tales (no matter how vague) should be kept close to one's heart for as long as the live.

3o'clock (CNF-Dialogue)

It was about three o'clock in the morning, and the boy was still awake, playing video games on his laptop. He saw that one of his friends had joined his teamspeak line, so he turned on his headset and greeted him.
"Hey dude, why you up so late?" He himself had only just realized the time, and rubbed his eyes wearily.
"Dunno, guess I'm just like you that way."
The boy raised and eyebrow and scratched his head, knocking a finger against his mic then regaining composure. "Watcha mean?" He yawned sleepily as he waited for a reply.
"I don't sleep when I'm thinkin' either." A muffled cough sounded through the microphone, and the boy stared at his screen in silence.
"Well, watcha thinkin' about?" The boy bit his lip and forced his eyes open to stay awake. He rubbed one eye and yawned silently once more.
"Just uh, I've been kinda... I broke up with my girlfriend."
For a while there was silence, and the boy noticed another cough and a sniff. He shook himself to stay awake.
"Oh... well uh, hang in there man. I mean, what happened, anyway?" The boy listened hard for a response, and heard muffled cursing in the background. A can was crushed, and another was opened not five seconds later.
"Screwed up...I don't really want to talk about it." Three gulps, then another can in the trash.
The boy just stared at his keyboard a while in thought, panicking about what he should do. "Alright... so uh, you wanna play Minecraft?" A hopeful smile dashed across the boy's face, wondering how his friend would react.
"Nah, not really..." Nothing but static came in for a few moments, then another cough.
The boy rubbed his hand against his face and sighed. "Alright, what about..."
A click and a pause informed the boy that his friend had left. He closed his laptop slowly and slid it to the floor, along with his headset. He stared at the mic a while, just thinking. Then he drifted off to sleep.

Recollection (CNF-Nostalgia)

Everyone has memories, whether they are good, bad, or pointless. When it comes to me, only bad memories seem to surface. Every one of the fond memories just seems to drip away, making more and more room for new good times. Instead, I warn myself about repeating the past; crushing my leg under a fallen bookshelf, soaking my blood-stained broken bone in the tub as I waited for the emergency room trip to commence. I remind myself to step away from the creaking trunk of the tree my friends pushed around as I watched wide-eyed, seeing it fall towards me like a tripped giant. I tell myself to call the police when my neighbors get robbed, not to run away like a coward. Those are only a few examples of the things I remember; the iron smell of blood in water as tears stung my eyes, trying to escape while my throat was still closed in pain. I think back to the ear-shattering crack of wood as leaves spilled onto the ground around me, signaling the blackness of unconsciousness. I regret the cowardly decision of running as I heard frantic gunshots and furious yelling next door, my trembling legs barely keeping me standing as a solitary car honked past me. But along with those memories come some of my best. The feeling of pride when I held back my tears in the hospital, ringing pain in my ears from the bone that stood out of my skin like a bleeding baton. The thought that my friends dragged me out from under the tree and waited in terror for me to wake up, not even thinking to get an adult. And most of all, the night air brushing softly against my skin as I hid and prayed desperately for our neighbor’s safety, soon hearing the triumphant shouts of an old man and his shotgun, tires shrieking against the road as more cowards fled. With every bad memory comes a good one, for me at least. And that’s why I cherish even the worst.