Special thanks to everyone in the 4th Dimension Fiction server on Discord, without whom this collection of stories would not exist. For nearly every story, one or more of the following talented writers, readers, and editors offered suggestions, asked questions, or gave encouragement that led to the finished products you're reading now. 

Blueness, Han, Helldaddy, BergsworthIII, RiverHorse, Bunny, Spoon, Shipra, AlphaKath, Chrissy, NickG, Skiphlen, and Emma.

A word about prompts: 

The heart of the 4th Dimension Fiction server is the array of prompt types provided. To maintain reasonable reading and feedback effort, the length of various prompt stories is limited to one, two, or three Discord comments -- 2,000, 4,000, and 6,000 characters (including spaces), respectively.

The 2k Plot Prompt is designed for quick bites of quality flash fiction. Writers are provided a 1-2 sentence prompt to set up a situation and/or character and then turned loose to grow a story from that seed.

The 4k Insert Prompt offers a little more room to breathe. The focus is on challenging the writer to work unique ideas into their own with smooth sentences and logical transitions. Writers receive a snippet of dialogue or a few lines of exposition that need to be inserted into the finished work in the order received. Sentences can be broken up but cannot be altered. 

The 6k Mystery Prompt is the longest of the pure story prompts and offers the greatest creative freedom. The writer receives a genre, a character, and one or more props to incorporate into a finished work. 

The First Word Prompt offers a list of seemingly unrelated words that the writer must use -- in the order provided -- to begin each sentence in the story. A maximum of three additional letters may be added before the prompt word in each sentence to allow the flexibility to add a pronoun or preposition. This prompt quickly became a favorite for sprint challenges (two or more writers using the same prompt to write a story within a minimal time frame) and tournaments that pit pairs of writers against each other, with the rest of the server voting. The one whose story is superior. These prompts force writers to push the envelope on vocabulary, voice and tone, and sentence structure and move outside their comfort zone. 

A Roulette Prompt involves "spinning the roulette wheel" to piece together a prompt from a list of disparate sentence fragments. The resulting story follows the rules of the Mystery Prompt, and they make up some of the most outrageous plot concepts on the server. 

The Hijack Prompt Stories offer an opportunity for any writer to pick a prompt used previously to write their own story. The Hijack stories can be up to 6,000 characters long but must otherwise follow the rules of the prompt type being hijacked. Many writers have chosen to hijack their own stories to expand a fun idea beyond the 2k or 4k limitation originally imposed. 

You'll find examples of stories written from all these prompt types in this collection. However, it's important to note that -- since the stories are no longer published exclusively on Discord -- I've taken the liberty of editing and, in many cases, expanding the stories without concern for the original length restrictions. The exception being the First Word stories, since adding more sentences would render the original prompt moot.

Ordinary Larry vs. The Secret Agents of Unthinkable Evil

2k Plot Prompt:

Write a short story whose title could aptly be: Ordinary Larry vs. The Secret Agents of Unthinkable Evil.

An envelope slid under my office door, so I picked it up and turned it over. A red plastic thumb drive - dropped into my palm. Ignoring all the cybersecurity rules the guys in IT have tried to beat into me, I plugged it into my laptop and double-clicked the only file, an audio recording. 

"My name is Larry Donovan, and I'm a Level 3 Analyst in the Domestic Terrorism division. It's March 3rd at 4:03 pm, Pacific Standard Time." 

I paused it for a moment and pulled up an agency directory. Almost immediately, I got a face to go with the name: white as Wonder Bread and mostly bald, Larry Donovan had the doughy complexion of... well, of a Level 3 Analyst in Domestic Terrorism. A quick scan told me he was 42 years old, married for 18 years, had two kids, and a 4-bedroom split-level ranch in the suburbs. He drove a beige Honda minivan, was about 30 pounds overweight, and pulled down $68,500 per year. In other words, Larry Donovan was about as ordinary as anyone possibly could be. And, three days ago, he'd apparently stopped showing up for work. 

"For the last six months, I've been keeping a file on a paramilitary survivalist group out of Montana. They go by a few different names -- The Bull Riders, The Price of Freedom, and, strangely enough, The Secret Agents of Unthinkable Evil... although I'm pretty sure that's some inside joke or code name because it's only used on their private Facebook groups and T-shirts. They hadn't raised any serious flags until last month when almost all their social chatter went dark. I tried twice to send it up the flagpole, but the powers that be won't hear it. After pulling their accounts and checking with the local PD, I'm certain they're planning something big. So I'm heading to Montana to stop them. If I don't make it back, please tell Julie and the kids I love them." 

Oh shit. 

I opened CNN.com. "Another Waco Brewing in Montana?" was the headline. Shit! 

My phone started ringing as my head began to ache.

This Isn't Even Unusual

4k Insert Prompt:

"They were sick or something and staring at me. So I sort of punt this one pigeon and there's a collective gasp around the whole stupid market but that shouldn't even be possible. Have you ever kicked a pigeon?" "I have not.” “Exactly. You can't. They're too fast. So that's what I said. Booting another pigeon I thought this isn't even unusual."

It's been 171 years since anyone on Terra Base tasted actual organic meat. I know this because, as Base Historian, it's my responsibility to keep track of this kind of worthless trivia. In 2845, the last of the Earth-bred livestock finally died out. After that, The Board strictly limited everyone's protein intake to 89 grams per day of genetically modified synthetic meat cooked up in the base's food production dome. Infused with artificial seasonings and appropriate dyes, the spongy blocks of matter could almost be mistaken for poor-quality beef and pork by those old enough to remember the real thing. At least, that’s how my great-grandmother described it in her Closing Record. 

No one alive on the base today has ever tasted real meat, myself included. So I have no idea what it's like. In fact, the thought of eating some animal's flesh makes me sick. But, of course, if the opportunity presented itself, I can't say my curiosity wouldn't get the better of me. 

It was that weird combination of curiosity and revulsion that urged me to my feet and out the door of my quarters when my buddy, Flick, called me just after midnight three nights ago. Flick works in the cargo dome, so he's always one of the first to learn about new supplies coming in. For 325 years, ships have arrived from the Mars or Titan colonies like clockwork every 30 days. So everything our skeleton crew needs to stay alive and basically happy on this burnt-out husk of a planet comes from a million miles away. But, this time, the drone shuttle brought something different. 

“Dirk, get your lazy ass down here and check these things out!” Flick’s voice had been unnaturally high with amazement. I jumped out of bed and threw on my jumpsuit, racing out the door before I even zipped it up. 

"They were sick or something and staring at me,” Flick said when I made it to the cargo hold and finally had a chance to think.

I saw three dozen cubical cages, each containing 20 or more flying animals I’d never seen before outside of the Biological Archive. About 15 of the creatures lay randomly around the cargo bay, not moving. A sizable group from the Market had gathered at the yellow painted line that separated it from the cargo bay. They wore puzzled and horrified expressions. 

“They’re pigeons!” he said as if that explained everything. 

“Where did they come from? Titan?” I asked. The ramifications were mind-boggling. If Titan Colony had progressed to the point of resurrecting Earth-born species that were food-quality, it would basically rewrite scientific history as I understood it. 

“So I sort of punt this one pigeon and there's a collective gasp around the whole stupid market. But that shouldn't even be possible.” Flick talked to me, but it took me a few seconds to register his words with the past and future of humanity ebbing and flowing in my imagination. “Have you ever kicked a pigeon?" 

I shook myself back into the here-and-now. “What?” 

“Have you ever kicked a pigeon?” he repeated, eyebrows up. I’m pretty sure he was drunk. 

"I have not.” 

“Exactly. You can't. They're too fast. So that's what I said.” 

It hit me in an instant. 

The birds in the nearest cage warbled and cooed in a steady rhythm, bobbing their heads as one. Their beady black eyes focused on nothing and everything. Fearing the worst, I opened the sliding door of the cage and pulled a pigeon out. It barely even acknowledged me or the fact that I was holding it out, dropping it, and launching it into the air with my right foot. There were more gasps from the Market, but one kid had already moved to pick up one of the feathered footballs. 

This wasn’t a real bird. It was certainly the cleverest AI-powered protein supplement they’d devised yet, but it was no living, breathing animal. Booting another pigeon, I thought, “This isn't even unusual."

My Wax Figure

Roulette Prompt: 

After everyone died a softly aged wax figure from another dimension stalked their soulmate in the root cellar.

knock knock 

It was maddening. And, at the same time, oddly comforting. 

knock knock 

Every 25 seconds like clockwork, she rapped softly on the trap door above me. Never louder or quieter, never one knock or three. Two knocks every 25 seconds. 

knock knock

And between the taps, a gentle humming. No particular tune to speak of, no repeating pattern, and no correlation with the nearly dead heartbeat of her tapping. But, it was a warm sound. More than once, I’d passed into a peaceful sleep by focusing on the hum between the knocks. 

knock knock

It had been just over 38 hours since I’d grabbed the last of the supplies I’d been able to scrounge together, thrown them into the root cellar below the pantry, and jumped in after them. As I was reaching back up to slam the trap door behind me, I’d heard the tinkle of breaking glass and the crash of the front door being forced open. I’d dogged the hatch down as tight as I could and fastened the slipshod latches I’d hastily installed earlier in the day. 

Then I’d waited silently, my heart pounding in my ears and my lungs burning as I’d tried to control my breathing. Above, there were heavy footfalls and a cacophony as they thoroughly ransacked the old farmhouse. I couldn’t see anything, so I don’t know if any or all of the intruders were human. I’m not even sure how to define that word anymore if I’m honest. At the time, my main concern had been staying invisible and waiting until they left. 

It hadn’t taken long. They’d done their damage, left their mark. Finally, after a few hours of silence, I’d felt safe enough to crack open a bottle of water and one of the cans of corn chowder I’d stored in the root cellar. Later, I’d decided to go up and inspect the damage. See if they’d left the truck alone.

So, I’d quietly unlatched the trap door and raised it, wincing at the squeak of the hinges. The root cellar was in perpetual shadow in the back of the wide pantry, but the kitchen beyond the pantry door was bright with morning sun. I’d managed to rise to the second step, head, and shoulders past the opening when a silhouette had lurched into the pantry doorway. With a yelp, I’d fallen backward, knocking my head hard on the lip of the trap door and bruising my tailbone as I landed on the hard-packed dirt floor. The door slammed behind me, and I’d secured it again before huddling into the corner, clutching my head. 

A few moments of silence, a few shambling steps, then the sound of weight settling on the door above. And then, 

knock knock

I knew what she was. 

The experts threw their big words around: multiverse, wormholes, alternate dimensions, quantum entanglement. I’d just stopped listening after a while. The bottom line for John Q. Public was simple: big holes appeared randomly in the fabric of reality, and things came through. Some of those things looked human; most didn’t. Some were clearly intelligent, but most were dumb. Almost all of them, as it turned out, were unremittingly violent. No one really knew why, but once the body count started skyrocketing, no one cared much any more. 

We were trying to stay alive, which I had. 

Me and my Wax Figure. 

From the brief glimpse I’d gotten before falling, this one was gorgeous — like a tasteful amalgam of a dozen classic Hollywood bombshells. She was beautiful and, at the same time, she looked wrong somehow. We called them Wax Figures because they looked the most human of all the creatures that had come through the rifts, but they were like barely animated corpses beneath a nearly perfect exterior. They moved incredibly slow, and their minds were slower still. Vacant eyes, seemingly devoid of emotion, barely registered the creatures around them. But, at least, they were peaceful.

Never harmed a fly as far as I know. 

Of course, that hadn’t stopped us from mowing them down mercilessly. After all, we’d tried to fight back on every front, but we’d been no match for the other visitors from whatever worlds the rifts connected us to. So, we’d taken our frustration out on the helpless Wax Figures. I’m not proud of it, but I’d taken down a few of them myself as I made my way to my uncle’s farm. 

I wonder if she knew them. Perhaps loved them. 

knock knock

For the first hour, I’d sat silently again, unsure of her intentions. I tried the door, but there was no way I could lift it with her weight on it. And she didn’t seem interested in moving. So then, I’d railed against her and her incessant knocking — screaming obscenities, throwing cans at the door, pounding on it with bruised fists — but she hadn’t responded, and she hadn’t moved. She’d just kept knocking. 

knock knock

After that, I’d resorted to tears and whining, mewling like a hurt kitten. I’d begged and pleaded, trying to reason with what I knew couldn’t reason. 

Finally, I’d sat back down again and listened. That’s when she’d started humming. And, between the hum and the gentle knocking, I started to get a sense of this odd creature. 

Like me, she was in a strange world, overrun with danger from superior creatures. Like me, she was alone and probably scared. And, like me, she was reaching out for connection and comfort to fill the space between now and eternity. 

knock knock

At this point, I’m resigned to this strange fate. I only brought down enough supplies for a few days, and water is already running low. My Wax Figure has chosen me for reasons unknown. She’s decided to stay with me as the end nears, like a kind of soulmate, I guess you could say. I won’t lie; it’s comforting to have someone so close at a time like this. As far as I know, I’m the last human being still alive. But I won’t have to die alone. 

I have her. 

knock knock